


A new life

by Redpandalavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, POV Cole (Dragon Age), POV Cullen Rutherford, POV Dorian Pavus, POV Inquisitor (Dragon Age), oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redpandalavellan/pseuds/Redpandalavellan
Summary: A collection of oneshots describing the life of my Inquisitor, Lyendrin Lavellan
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke, Inquisitor & Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor & Solas (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan & Cullen Rutherford, Male Lavellan & Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 21
Kudos: 37





	1. Freeze

**Author's Note:**

> I have a backlog of oneshots at the moment that I'll try to post in chronological order, but once I've caught up with those all bets are off as I just write whatever scenario pops into my head - please enjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald gave his life to allow the people of Haven time to flee, or so he thought

He was cold when he awoke, frost accumulating on his bare face where it laid on the icy ground. He shivered, and the movement sent ripples of pain through his body causing him to groan.  
Lyendrin pulled his head from the floor, cursing as the frozen skin tore and stung like ripping off a bandage.

Spotting his staff a few feet away he crawled slowly towards it, using it as a crutch to stand, his hands shaking as they gripped the charred shaft like a drowning man grips a piece of flotsam. As he took in his surroundings he realised he was in some kind of cave, sheltered from the avalanche. He'd been lucky.  
There was no time to celebrate, not yet. He had to keep moving, already he had no idea where he was and the Inquisition was moving further and further away. If he didn't find them it would simply be a race to see if the cold or his wounds took him first.

He set off walking, slow and careful at first, frozen joints stiff and warm breath misting in front of his face. As he moved he began to warm up a little, the frost cracking on his clothes as he hurried through cave after cave all seemingly identical.  
"It can't go on forever. There has to be a way out."  
Just as he formed the thought he saw a faint light beyond and heard the familiar crackle of a fade rift. Lyendrin's blood ran cold, colder than before, and he raised his staff with aching limbs. He was in no shape to fight demons and he knew it.

As he got close they showed themselves, wraiths and despair demons all turned to face him. He raised his staff and as he did so the mark flared in a way it hadn't before. He leaned into the new magic, drawing on its strength, and a small rift opened above the demons heads, pulling them in. They screamed as they disintegrated back into the fade and he sighed with relief, closing the rift before more could follow them through.

Beyond where the rift used to be, he saw an opening to the outside world and his heart swelled, but hope quickly turned to despair as he watched the blizzard swirling outside. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and pressed onwards, he could not stay here.  
The wind tore at him and snow blinded him as he fought through the storm. Snow up to his calves hindered his movement and soaked his legs, his trousers quickly freezing solid with a cold burn against his legs.  
Pieces of wreckage guided him. A flickering burnt out torch, a broken wagon, an abandoned camp fire. He tried to follow their trail as best he could, but still he saw no sign of them, and the cold was making it hard to move.

The blizzard beat at his face, snow clouding his vision as he walked, and he wondered if he was going in the right direction at all. He would end up simply walking in circles if it wasn't for the red stained snow he left in his wake as he stumbled forward.  
He tried to conjure a fire in his palms to warm himself, but found the wind was too strong. The flames were smothered within seconds and the concentration and energy needed to maintain the spell fell beyond him as he staggered through the snow, clutching his injuries.

After what felt like years the storm broke, the wind dropped and small flakes fell slowly instead of hurtling at his face. His face and ears were numb with cold and his hands shook, white where they weren't bright red. He stumbled forward, looking around him to try and gather his bearings now he could see. He was somewhere in the mountains, snow and sparse trees the only landmarks.  
Every movement left his limbs aching, but as he approached another abandoned fire he felt it. Warmth. Fresh embers burned in the bottom of the pit, and though he wanted nothing more than to stay and warm his body he quickly pressed forward, a new warmth and strength within him. They were close, they had to be.

He rounded a corner and saw hundreds of lights in the distance, a camp. His whole body sagged in relief and then he heard a familiar shout.  
"There! It's him!"  
"Thank the maker!"  
His legs buckled beneath him, no longer having the strength to stand, and his knees sunk deep into the snow. His whole body pitched forward, but strong arms caught him before he hit the ground.  
Even in such a harsh place, with them he was safe, he was warm. He closed his eyes.


	2. Lyendrin can't sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at Skyhold and taking his role as Inquisitor, Lyendrin makes more of an effort to integrate with the humans he now shares his life with. He cuts his hair to a more manageable length (after all he has no time now to maintain it, and short hair is more practical in battle), and tries to get used to the artificial days and nights of a working schedule - but something just won't quite settle

Lyendrin threw the blankets off his bed in frustration. He couldn't sleep, no matter how tired he was. He had tossed and turned for hours now, changing positions, pillows, blankets, to no avail. His palm bathed the room in a soft green glow as he strode out of bed, dressing in his comfortable travelling gear.  
If his body wouldn't let him rest then he decided it could do something useful.  
He carefully slipped out of his quarters, his quiet footsteps echoing down empty halls. He avoided the few night guards on his way to his destination at all costs. He wasn't in the mood for idle chatter or queries about his midnight activities. Soon, he stepped out into the castle gardens.  
Simply being in the small patch of vegetation helped lend some normalcy back into his routine, this was where he belonged. He spent some time weeding the herbs, wiling away the hours in a useful pursuit and hoping some physical exertion might tire him enough to get a few hours sleep before the dawn. They would be riding out tomorrow and he knew he would suffer for not sleeping at all.  
It was a cloudless night and the soft moonlight cast conflicting shadows with the tinted glow in his palm, making the colours of the plants look strange and altered. After some time he sat back, resting up against a willow tree in the corner of the courtyard. His palms were filthy with soil and he was sweating from exertion over many hours, but he felt more rested than he had in a long time. He tilted his head towards the night sky and assessed the progress of the moon. There were still a few hours before daylight broke, perhaps he should return to his quarters and try to get some more sleep. But he knew he could not rest there, it was not how he was raised. He grew up in the forests, he would never be comfortable with downy pillows and soft mattresses. This was what he needed, it invigorated his soul as well as his body.  
It was a warm spring night so he had no need for furs, he simply climbed high into the branches of the tree and settled in. It was less comfortable than the bed in his quarters or even a bedroll on the ground but this close to nature was where he felt calm, where he felt safe.

Cullen knocked on the inquisitors door. "Sorry to wake you ser," he called out, "but you'll be setting off in a few hours and there's still a final briefing before you go." He waited a few seconds and then called out again, puzzled by the lack of noise or movement from the other side of the door. "Inquisitor?" He opened the door to an empty room and stood for a few seconds in shock. "Where in the blazes has he gone?" He muttered, turning quickly on his heel and heading towards the war room, perhaps the inquisitor was already awake and waiting for him there. As he continued his search, he saw Cole standing in the corridor. He still harboured a mistrust for the spirit, but then again he had his uses. "Cole!" He called out, striding towards him. "Have you seen the inquisitor? I need to speak with him before his departure."  
"He's sleeping." Cole said quietly, in the enigmatic tone that set the hair on the back of Cullens neck on end. Cullen sighed. "No, I've checked his quarters and he isn't there."  
"Yes." Cole replied, as if the whole exchange made perfect sense.  
Cullen grew frustrated. "Can you ever answer a question without turning it into a damn riddle?" He grumbled, "Do you know where the inquisitor is or not?"  
Cole raised his head and nodded, "Come with me, if it will help."  
Cullen followed him out into Skyholds gardens and looked around. Cole had stopped under the old willow in the corner of the courtyard, but only servants and other workers crossed the yard. The inquisitor was nowhere to be seen.  
"Listen, thanks Cole but I'll keep looking by myself okay?" He said, exasperated. Cole lowered his voice, "Shhhhh," he mumbled, "you'll wake him." Cole raised his head up and as Cullen followed his gaze he saw a small elven figure laid out across the branches near the top of the tree. He simply stared in disbelief.  
"I'll never understand damn elves" he muttered, turning his gaze back down. "Thanks Cole, I never would have found him-" But Cole had already vanished.  
He sighed, and turned his attention back to the tree, and how to get the great leader of their holy forces out of it.


	3. Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyendrin attempts to bring a little of his home to Skyhold, and finds that the role of keeper isn't quite as easy as it looks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I wrote for new years but forgot to post becuase it's quite a bit longer than my normal oneshots and so I filed it differently  
> Sometimes they just run away with you 🤷♂️

"Ser!"  
The woman waved him down as he descended the stairs at the front of the keep, heading towards the tavern for the evening.  
She was short and slender, dressed in a scouts uniform with a longbow slung across her back and white hair pulled up into a bun revealing her long pointed ears. Deep purple vallaslin curved like vines over the majority of her face, signifying her devotion to Elgar'nan, and identifying her as one of the few dalish recruits to the inquisiton.  
"Ysra, what can I do for you?"  
The inquisiton was growing by the day, and even though he couldn't know all of his soldiers, Iron Bull had showed him that it helped to know some. Dalish recruits were rare, the inquisition forces were made up of primarily humans in the first place and even though Lyendrin himself was dalish, few wished to leave their clans behind for what was seen as a human organisation.  
Lyendrin made an effort to know each of the dalish recruits. It helped to have some friendly faces after all, in amongst the shemlen that surrounded them, and though his new title prevented him from really befriending them, he was glad they felt comfortable enough to approach him.  
She seemed to be nervous, fiddling with the corner of her bow as she spoke.  
"Well a few of us were wondering...." She began, taking her time and meandering around the point. "Ras'Vunin is soon... and we've never been apart from our clans at this time before, with no keeper to guide us..... and well... you were first in your clan right?"  
She looked at him hopefully.  
"Would you consider leading the celebrations with us?"  
Lyendrin was taken aback. He knew Ras'Vunin was approaching, and was disappointed he couldn't spend it with his clan, but had planned to observe it quietly by himself. He knew it would be the first of many solitary holidays now that he had accepted his new role, and decided he needed to get used to it.  
It was true he knew the rites, he had helped his mother prepare for the celebration many times before, but he never expected to be asked to lead a gathering here.  
It took him a moment to collect his thoughts and reply, but when he did, he did so with a smile.  
"Of course, I'd be honoured to. Just give me some time to arrange it."

The next few days were a bustle of activity. The inquisiton still required much work to establish its growing place in the world as they settled into skyhold. They received requests for aid from dozens of places around Fereldan and Orlais, and Lyendrin had to get used to making decisions on troop training and deployment, diplomatic relations, and even intelligence gathering and use. He hardly knew where to begin, and knew without the help of his advisors the fledgling organisation would have been driven into the ground within the first week.  
But even in the midst of all this new responsibility, he carved out time to prepare for the celebrations, and found that his new role helped greatly in some areas.  
He asked Josephine to source fabrics and dyes for the lanterns, Cullen assigned some more men to clear the last of the debris from the garden and make it safe for an event. Even Leliana agreed to spare some of her agents to try and contact local clans, to see if any were close enough and willing to accept them into their celebrations, though her efforts bore no fruit. The dalish were notoriously hard to find if they didn't wish to be found, and the inquisiton had garnered little trust from them so far.  
Still he worked tirelessly to fulfil his obligations to both his new role and his people, and found himself growing ever more excited about the prospect of a proper celebration, and ever more fearful that it depended entirely on him this time.

He rose before the dawn and quickly dressed in the dark, shivering as a freezing breeze passed across his back. The frostbacks were much colder than the forests he was used to, and although he was indoors, the stone walls of the castle did little to retain heat.  
Some measure of warmth returned to his skin after donning the clothes he had brought with him from his clan, along with a woollen cloak to keep out the worst of the winter weather. With a quick gesture he lit a candle and moved to inspect himself in the mirror.  
The clothes were not really fit for a ceremony, and he lamented that he did not have time to retrieve the traditional garments from his clan. But he had to make do with what he had. He hadn't exactly expected to need his ceremonial clothes when he set out for the conclave so many months ago, and at least the travelling clothes he had bore traditional dalish designs. He supposed he should be thankful for the homesickness that led him to pick such obviously dalish clothes. It wasn't a smart choice for travelling and trying to blend in among the humans, but he didn't like being away from the clan and wanted something to feel anchored to home, and it served him well now that his outfit was at least slightly traditional.  
He grasped the candle in one hand and made his way through the stronghold on light silent feet. Some acknowledged him with a nod as he passed, and others still ignored him, too busy with their own duties to pay any mind to a cloaked elven man hurrying on his way.

Arriving in the garden, he saw that servants had already piled crates full of items in the middle. He set about putting everything in its place, laying out coloured fabrics and dyes alongside needle and thread, organising pots of powder and marking out an area for a bonfire.  
The sky began to brighten slightly as he worked, and slowly others came to join him in the courtyard. An elven woman arrived with bundles of willow branches in hand, and an elven man followed not far behind with arms full of logs for the fire.  
Each was dressed in their own way, some had traditional clothes brought from their clan, others normal travelling clothes adorned with whatever dalish trinkets they had to hand.  
As dawn began to break over the horizon he found himself stood before a small cluster of dalish elves from half a dozen clans. Some stood, some sat cross legged on the ground, but all waited and looked to him to speak.  
His mouth suddenly went dry as he looked at them, so many people with different expectations. Even in his own clan he had never addressed them alone, always reluctant to accept any extra responsibility his mother tried to give him, arguing that he wouldn't be keeper for many years yet after all. What did he know.

He cleared his throat and clasped his hands in front of him, trying to keep the nerves out of his movements and his voice.  
"Thank you for being here with me today to celebrate Ras'Vunin. Many of us are from different clans, and will observe this holiday in different ways, but here and now we come together as one people. Tuelanen ama na"  
They smiled, and echoed, "Juviran ven es'an hama sul em." before getting up and each moving towards the supplies of their choice. Willow branches were stretched into frames and tied with twine, while strips of fabric were dyed, painted and embroidered with different colours and patterns clearly unique to each clan. Lyendrin himself began assembling a rounded frame for a lantern, picking out some red fabric and black paint to begin decorating. It fascinated Lyendrin to see the differences in the way they celebrated their holiday. He had only been to one arlathvhen in his lifetime, and still found it strange how each clan could be so vastly different from each other. They were all one people and yet still so fragmented between themselves. It truly brought home how much they had lost, and how difficult it would be to regain while they were still without a homeland of their own, while they had to stay scattered and mobile to avoid the ire of humans.  
The stronghold began to wake around them as others began to perform their duties, often stopping and staring for a moment as they passed through the courtyard and saw the group of elves all intent on their crafts.  
A young human girl giggled and pointed at the lanterns as she passed by.  
"Look mother! They're painting, like on their faces, it's so pretty."  
Lyendrin smiled at her, and held up his lantern for her to see, but she was hurriedly dragged away by her mother muttering under her breath. The sight disappointed him, but wasn't really surprising, so he returned back to his work, determined to enjoy the day.  
He took great care with his brush, attempting to overcome a lack of artistic talent by sheer force of will, his hand moving through memories motions. It would never be a work of art, but it was his contribution to the day and therefore important to him nonetheless.

He looked up from his work a moment later to see one of the dalish men arriving with a ram carcass slung over his shoulder. He looked over towards the bonfire, where logs has begun to be piled in a circle of stones with no real effort, and then walked over towards Lyendrin.  
"Hren," He started, dipping his head slightly with respect. "I've brought the kill, there were no deer nearby and I didn't want to go too far or be gone too long, so I thought this would be okay. There isn't a full clan to provide for after all."  
Lyendrin stood in confused silence as he explained himself, thinking of the earful Josephine was going to give him later for allowing someone to walk around dripping blood through the main hall in full view of any visiting dignitaries.  
"Uh. Thank you." He managed eventually, mind spinning to try and catch up. Had he forgotten something? They never did anything special with food on Ras'Vunin in his clan.... oh.  
The other man also seemed to catch onto Lyendrins confusion and looked nervous.  
"Is this.... do you not....?"  
Lyendrin made an effort to straighten himself out, sinking back into leadership mode.  
"No, this isn't something that was normally practiced in my clan, but I meant what I said earlier. This is a holiday for all of us, and I mean to accommodate any traditions as much as possible."  
His eyes darted to the unlit bonfire. They normally didn't light it until shortly before dusk, signifying the shift from preparation into celebration, but if they were going to be cooking a roast it would need to be lit now so it would grow large enough in time. There was no way to follow one tradition without denying another, but he was determined to do this well. His eyes returned to the man stood uncertainly before him, still holding the ram.  
"Do you ascribe any ceremony to lighting the bonfire?"  
He shook his head, and started to launch into explanations but Lyendrin cut him short.  
"It's okay, go put the carcass down by the fire. I'll be there in a moment."  
He called over a passing servant and asked them to fetch a knife and roasting spit, as well as salt and spices from the kitchens, before turning to the rest of his group.  
"We will be lighting the bonfire shortly, it may be earlier than some of you are used to, but if you wish to participate in any ceremony regarding it then you should come and join us."  
He returned to speak with the man who brought the animal, as the others began getting to their feet.  
"I've sent for some cooking supplies, but I'll admit I'm not used to this kind of tradition. Can I leave you in charge of the roast?"  
The man looked as overwhelmed as Lyendrin felt, but nodded his agreement and Lyendrin thanked him, and waved over the elven servant who arrived back with arms full of the requested items.  
After a few brief discussions with members of other clans, they all stood surrounding the unlit bonfire. Lyendrin raised his staff, and allowed the familiar pull of magic to flow through him as he began to speak.  
"With the lighting of the fire we show our devotion to Elgar'nan, who defeated the Sun and brought balance to the Land. While the Sun hides in his shame, we defy him and bring light for ourselves. Elgar'nan'enaste"  
The end of his staff grew bright as the final elven phrase was echoed around him, and a moment later the bonfire was burning steadily, magic helping to speed the spread of the fire over each log until it burned hot and tall. He saw the man enlist others to help him set up the spit and prepare the meat, and decided he could finally go back to his lantern.

As he stepped away from the bonfire, a satisfied smile on his face having navigated the situation with some success, he noticed the elven servant was still lingering on the edge of their small circle. They seemed familiar, though he couldn't quite place them having so many people to keep track of now, and he wondered if they had been watching the quietly celebrations all day. He turned to them, and they seemed to panic, shrinking under his gaze.  
"Were you watching the celebration?" He asked, and they began to back pedal in a panicked tone.  
"N-no your worship, I was only.... I should-"  
"Hey, it's okay calm down." He replied gently laughing slightly. "There's no law against curiosity."  
"My father was dalish." They admitted slowly after a quiet moment. "He never told me why he left his clan, but he always spoke about them. I always wondered...."  
"Why don't you join us?" He offered, and they looked panicked once more.  
"Oh no, I couldn't, I have to return to my duties-"  
Lyendrin waved an absent hand in the air.  
"Today is a day of celebration, for all our people. If you wish to join us you are welcome, your duties can wait."  
They paused uncertainly a moment longer, but finally nodded and returned his smile nervously.  
They may have been the first, but after seeing Lyendrin welcome them into the celebration more city elves began to join in. He suspected some only wished for a day off from their duties, caring little for the religion and tradition of the day. But if a day off encouraged them to participate in their culture in any small way, Lyendrin was happy to indulge them.  
They took it in turns to tell tales as the day went on, well known stories of great warriors, but also a few lesser known tales he hadn't heard before. Even some well known tales had details altered or omitted when told by another and he made sure to listen carefully to all of them, trying to commit them to memory after only one re-telling.  
Some of the dalish muttered quietly and cast sideways glances at the new additions, but still again some welcomed them to their group, handing out supplies and explaining traditions and stories. He grinned as he saw it, his people reclaiming their heritage that they had been denied for so many years. Perhaps his position would allow him to help them more than he expected, perhaps his work as sael wasn't truly done after all.

It wasn't long before dusk when a small face appeared in his periphery. It was the same child as before, sneaking around the plant pots to get a look at the many lanters now hung around the garden waiting to be lit, the decorating almost finished. He placed his half finished lantern back on the ground and walked over to her, startling her as he placed a hand lightly on the back of her shoulder.  
She spun around with a start and a small squeak, looking like she was going to make a break for it any second, but Lyendrin spoke before she had a chance to move.  
"You like the lanterns, don't you?"  
She nodded with a shy smile.  
"They're so pretty. Can I play too?" She hesitated a moment and then executued a wobbly curtsy and added, "um- your worship."  
He smiled. He'd always enjoyed spending time with the children in their clan, what few there were, teaching them about their history or simply watching over them and playing games while their parents did their own duties for the clan. She reminded him of those he'd left behind.  
"What's your name?" He asked gently, kneeling down to her level.  
"Kate."  
"Okay Kate, come here."  
He sat with her by his own lantern, and handed her the brush.  
"You see the patterns I've painted here?" He pointed as he explained, falling easily back into old routines.  
"They represent the god Elgar'nan, the all father. Today is Ras'Vunin, the day of light. We celebrate his victory over his father the sun, that allowed the land to flourish. The sun hides his face today in shame, so we light the world ourselves with lanterns like these."  
She ran her fingers across the patterns with avid curiosity, and then turned a puzzled face towards him.  
"He fought the sun? But... mother says the Maker created everything. She never said anything about elgynan."  
The mispronunciation amused him and he gently corrected her.  
"There are many ways to explain the world. Most humans believe in the Maker and andraste, but the dalish revere the creators, our own gods."  
"Oh." She was quiet for a contemplative moment and Lyendrin handed her a paintbrush.  
"Why don't you try to copy them?"  
He watched as she used the remaining free space on the lantern to try and replicate the delicate patterns he had drawn. Her childlike strokes were heavy handed and faltering, but Lyendrin didn't mind. He himself was no artist, the years of repetition only allowing a passable production of the symbols, and it was probably a better attempt than he had made when first invited to make a lantern as a child.  
Someone else however did seem to mind.

"With all due respect inquisitor, what are you doing?"  
Ysra's voice came from behind him, quiet but bold with anger. He stood to face her, letting the child continue her painting as they spoke.  
"She wishes to participate in our holiday. I'm explaining our traditions and letting her help with a lantern like I used to for the children in my clan."  
He knew why she objected, but played ignorant for the moment, hoping a calm and reasoned argument would prevent her causing a scene.  
"You can't seriously let a shemlen take part in our sacred celebrations. This isn't for them."  
Kate seemed to notice the conversation going on around her and paused, but Lyendrin remained firm.  
"Ysra she's a child. If she wishes to learn and participate in our customs with respect then why shouldn't she? How do we ever expect the shemlen to live peacefully with us if they don't understand us? If we continue to be hostile and turn them away?"  
Her voice grew louder as she replied, tension building as she crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.  
"We can't just roll over and let them in! They took everything from us and you just want to give them this too?"  
He sighed, feeling the frustration bleeding out of her and seeing the part of himself that first arrived in haven those months ago, that argued viciously with Dorian about elven culture, that shut himself away from ever trying to truly know the humans he spent time with.  
He was still calm when he spoke, soft and understanding, but with all the authority he had learned to wield over these few short weeks.  
"I know how you feel. I felt that way too but... more anger won't solve this. You wanted me to lead these celebrations, and this is how I lead them. Anyone who wishes to learn is welcome, and if you have a problem with that you don't have to celebrate with us."  
Ysra looked as if she meant to argue further, but after a brief pause simply bowed her head.  
"Yes ghi'lan, I apologise. Ir abelas."  
Lyendrin smiled and inclined his head in return as she turned and returned her attention to her craft. He knelt down once more where the child was sat with the lantern, inwardly relieved that the situation hadn't spiralled too far out of control.

He continued to talk to her about the legend of the holiday, and try to help her with the right symbols and brush strokes, until he suddenly realised that the relative calm was about to be broken once more. An irate woman stormed directly into the garden, making a beeline for the gathered elves and Lyendrin in particular. He recognised the girls mother from before, and Kate also seemed to take notice of her mother's approach and jumped to her feet with a start.  
"There you are!" She exclaimed loudly, striding to her daughter and hauling her over by her arm as she cried out apologies.  
Lyendrin hurried to intervene, his hopes for a quiet holiday quickly dashed.  
"There's no need to punish her, she was with me, helping with the celebration."  
The woman turned her head to glare pointedly at Lyendrin, and other heads now began to turn at the commotion beginning in the garden.  
"You! Bloody knife ears, poisoning her mind."  
She spat the words with a venom that took Lyendrin by surprise, the slur ringing in his ears as he felt his anger rising quickly. The woman didn't slow her tirade, continuing with a raised voice and an irate expression.  
"Taking our children, turning them against the Maker to worship your false gods. The inquisiton was supposed to be divine justinia's work, dedicated to the Maker and Andraste, why do we continue to let blasphemers lead us astray? This isn't right, this isn't what she worked for, she wouldn't let mages run amok and savages practice their rituals-"

"That's enough!"  
His shout finally silenced the woman, and Lyendrin became acutely aware of every eye in the courtyard trained intently on him.  
The mark crackled in his palm in response to his outburst and he could feel the small jolts of electricity passing between his fingertips as he worked to calm himself.  
"I am an elf, a dalish elf no less, I have never hidden that. It is a part of who I am and how I was raised. I am also the man who rallied the mages, who closed the breach, who stood against Corypheus and continues to lead the fight against him. Some call me herald of Andraste, and honestly it doesn't matter to me if you do. Your beliefs are your own, I'm not here to convert, but I won't be bullied into abandoning my faith. Anyone who wishes to learn and observe our traditions with respect is welcome, if you can't accept those with different beliefs, then there is no place for you with the inquisition."  
The woman looked murderous, but was again silenced by the sound of heavily armoured footfalls crossing the courtyard as commander Cullen approached, flanked by a half dozen guards.  
"Is there a problem, Inquisitor?"  
He asked, his glaze flicking between Lyendrin, the irate woman, and the watching crowds.  
Lyendrin turned and stared hard at the woman, until she seemed to crumble.  
"Come now Kate." She muttered harshly, practically dragging the girl behind her as she marched back towards the main hall, past the soldiers and gawking servants.  
Lyendrin let out a heavy breath, a mixture of frustration and relief.  
"She wasn't pleased with us holding the celebrations here. I doubt she'll stick around after that display, but.... make sure someone keeps an eye on her."  
Cullen glanced around the garden at the rest of the assumbmed crowd, muttering amongst themselves.  
"As you say inquisitor. I'll leave some men stationed here, just in case."  
Cullen nodded to two of the guards and they wordlessly took up positions on the edge of the courtyard. Lyendrin indicated his thanks, and watched as Cullen and the rest of the men turned back to the main hall once more.

The atmosphere was uneasy, all of the elves now watching the humans that surrounded them carefully, suddently aware of how outnumbered they were here. Even Lyendrin was nervous, though he tried his best to suppress it. It shouldn't have surprised him that someone would object, but such an open confrontation was less than ideal. He picked up his lantern, trying to seem a picture of calm and collectedness, but seeing the childish patterns scrawled on one half of it made his heart drop.  
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he hung the lantern from the branch of a tree and looked around at the rest of the now subdued celebrators. The sun was dipping below the horizon, long shadows cast across the garden and the sky streaked with an orange sunset. Lyendrin tried his best at another smile to restore the cheer of the festivities.  
"Its time to light the lanterns everyone!"  
They began to bustle around the garden, taking solace from their unease in movement and activity. Lyendrin used familiar deft movements to set coloured lights dancing off the stone walls, feeling a small sense of satisfaction as a few children (and even grown people) cooed in wonder.  
It wasn't long before the courtyard was alive with light, the sun disappearing and replaced by decorated lanterns and the large bonfire now forming the centerpiece of the celebration.  
The meat was carved from the spit and passed around with bread, and the smell made Lyendrins mouth water. His stomach growled and he realised in his haste he hadn't stopped to eat all day.  
They ate and drank and talked, whiling hours away in happy companionship. It surprised Lyendrin just how much he enjoyed the company, how much he missed being able to speak elven and be understood, to have the companionship of his people and feel truly dalish after so long. It felt like home.  
An informal ring was drawn up in the dirt, people sparring with weapons ranging from wooden swords to real sharpened daggers. For once Lyendrin didn't take part in the tests of arms, and he itched with longing to let off his frustration by slinging a few spells. But it wasn't a good idea to start playing with magic in the small garden as opposed to a wide forest, and his role this time was simply to oversee the contentests, occasionally stepping in with a spell when alcohol and good cheer combined with weapons inevitably led to accidents.

Finally, it came time for the end of the night. The embers of the bonfire were handily extinguished, and one by one the lanterns around the garden were blown out. The resulting darkness wasn't true, the rest of skyhold still continued its lively pace with lanterns abound, but it still allowed them to see the stars above in much sharper relief. The group of them gathered together in the darkness, waiting a moment for their eyes to adjust. A few giggles punctured the silence as people fumbled in the low light, but quickly they were all seated on the ground, attention turned above.  
Slowly, uncertainly, Lyendrin began to sing. The hymn was soft and familiar, as if ingrained in his bones. He knew the words by heart, but still singing in front of such a crowd made him nervous. He was certainly no performer, barely able to hold a tune. So when someone picked up a lute and began to play, the soft notes holding a sweeter melody than he could ever hope to capture, he almost ruined the note with his sigh of relief.  
The others joined in on the second verse, a chorus of voices now filling the garden, drawing people onto windows and balconies to squint into the darkness where they remained.  
He laid back and stared at the stars above, picking out the constellations in his mind as the music flowed around him. It was relaxing, finally alone with his thoughts and the night. The day had been long and exhausting, barely controlled chaos, and he wondered how his mother ever seemed to conduct the celebrations seemingly without a hitch. He certainly held a new respect for her and spared a horrified thought for how Josephine could possibly enjoy planning celebrations such as this.  
But the day had been his. He had stepped up, organised everything for a proper ceremony, and somehow even dealt with the issues along the way. There would no doubt be repercussions for him practicing worship so openly, the advisors would have a lot to say about rumours and alliances later, but he found he didn't care. Tonight he was proud. Proud of himself, proud of his people, proud of his religion. He offered a muttered prayer in the easy darkness, a thanks to the gods that led him here, and a hope that the future would hold more quiet moments and fewer angry shemlen.  
Though he doubted much could be done about the latter.


	4. Aspirin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyendrin and Dorian get along quite well, but a centuries worth of cultural differences don't dissapear overnight. Especially not with two men so stubborn with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading the wiki for research and it said that humans have forgotten a lot of the medicinal properties for herbs etc. that the dalish still use.  
> So I imagine a scenario like this going down early in their relationship.

"Here,"  
Lyendrin held the shaven piece of tree bark towards him as their mounts walked side by side down the forest trail.  
"What's that for then?"  
He squinted curiously at the elf and his offered 'gift'. Lyendrin often stopped their travels to investigate something that had caught his eye. A herb, a landmark, a supply cache. He seemed entirely unbothered about getting things done quickly, and rather preferred to thoroughly sate his curiosity about every place they came across before moving on.  
'It might be useful!' He would claim indignantly, even pausing mid battle to rifle through the pockets of a mages robe or strip some nearby elfroot of its leaves. Dorian had never understood it and suspected he never would, so much about the elf remained a mystery to him even now.  
Still, he had yet to lead them astray, and so he had waited patiently while Lyendrin dismounted and stripped some bark from a nearby tree with a pocket knife.  
Now though he found logic failing him as the piece of wood was thrust in his direction.

  
"You've been complaining about a headache since we set off."  
Lyendrin replied, his slender arm still outstretched with the bark in hand. Dorian found himself distracted momentarily by the thin black lines that swirled around his forearm. Lyendrin was no warrior, but the necessities of the role he now filled had propelled him into months of combat training and practical experience until he was able to swing a six foot oaken staff as if it were no more than a twig of kindling. The taut, lean muscle he now possessed had caught Dorian's eye on more than one occasion, and he had to drag his mind from thoughts of getting him alone in his quarters at Skyhold, back to the task at hand.

  
It was true, his head throbbed with each step his mount made, likely due to the ill-advised vast quantities of liquor he had imbibed the previous evening. But he bristled slightly at the remark. He hadn't complained that much.  
"Yes. But why are you handing me a piece of wood?"  
He stared blankly at Lyendrin who in turn began to look puzzled. The way his brows furrowed and his ears tilted slightly down as he cocked his head reminded Dorian of the herd of halla they passed a few miles ago. He wondered if so many years raising them made him pick up some of their traits. It was almost endearing, the cute little-  
"It's willow bark. You know, to help with the pain."  
Lyendrin's words snapped him back into focus and he took the piece of bark from his hand. He twisted it around in his palm, staring at it curiously.  
"What am I supposed to do with it exactly?"  
He asked incredulously, returning his eyes to Lyendrin who sighed in exasperation, making wide gestures with his hands as he spoke.  
"Chew it obviously! What else would you do? Wear it as a hat?"  
Dorian let out a bold laugh at that and waved the scrap accusingly in Lyendrin's direction.  
"You want me to eat it? Yeah, okay. Nice try, Inquisitor, but I'm not falling for that again."  
His eyes narrowed into a glare as he remembered the last time Lyendrin had tried to convince him of 'Dalish secrets'. He'd damn near ruined a perfectly good set of robes.

  
Lyendrin chuckled in return and as Dorian watched his face he noticed small freckles hidden in the tattoos around his eyes.  
"It's not my fault you're so gullible, maybe if you took more of an interest in Dalish culture you wouldn't make such a fool of yourself."  
Dorian huffed and threw the tree bark back at him, aiming for the head, but Lyendrin snatched it from the air almost effortlessly. Show off.  
"Seriously though," Lyendrin continued, turning his attention to his hart for a moment to nudge it back onto the correct path with his knee.  
"You don't use this in Tevinter? Willow trees don't grow up there or something?"  
"There's plenty of willow trees, we simply don't look at them and think-  
'Hmm a delightful spot of lunch!'"  
Lyendrin turned in the saddle to address the other two following further behind them on the trail.  
"Back me up here, because Dorian is insisting that I'm crazy. Chewing willow bark cures headaches, yes?"  
He was met with equally blank stares from both Varric and Iron Bull which gave Dorian a smug sense of satisfaction.

  
"You guys eat tree bark, Pointy?" Varric asked incredulously and Lyendrin scowled.  
"We don't just eat tree bark for the fun of it Varric, willow bark has medicinal properties like elfroot. You chew it and it helps with headaches."  
He turned to Iron Bull who simply shook his head.  
"Sorry boss, I've never heard of anyone eating that stuff."  
Lyendrin simply sighed heavily.  
"Mythal preserve me, and you call us savages. Mother said you people had lost much of the old knowledge but I never thought..."  
Dorian scowled. He wasn't in the mood for more elven superiority.  
"I don't care if it reduces my age by five years! I'm not about to start chewing on tree bark like some kind of animal. Really, even the idea!"  
"Suit yourself." Lyendrin shrugged and shoved the piece of bark back into his pack.  
"If it affects your delicate sensibilities, shemlen, you can just put up with the pain."  
The tone was teasing but Dorian had had enough of Lyendrin's attitude. The throbbing behind his eyes overshadowed his thoughts for a moment and the building frustration burst out.

  
"I'll stick with the trusted remedies of civilised society thank you very much. If I need a backwoods hillbilly potion I'll be sure to let you know." He snapped roughly, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to think.  
Lyendrin glared at him and Dorian saw real anger flare behind his eyes. Lyendrin huffed and turned around, spurring his mount forward to take the lead. Dorian sighed, he knew he'd crossed a line and regretted his hasty words. He'd have to apologise for it later, but for now as Lyendrin trotted ahead of him he simply sat back and admired the view.


	5. A Knight in the tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has to be some downtime between saving the world, and the Inquisitor enlists the Champion's help in ensuring Commander Cullen is part of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is much longer than I intended it to be, it just ran away with me  
> Hope you enjoy!

"Well well, Knight-Captain Cullen, it's been some time."  
Cullen suppressed a groan as the familiar voice entered his office. They were all aware of his presence, the fit Cassandra had thrown after he arrived almost enough to bring down the smithy, but until now their paths hadn't crossed.  
Not that Cullen had been avoiding him. Of course not. That would be childish, given the help he was offering to the Inquisition. He just simply had a lot of work to do, something the man would clearly know little about.  
"That's not my title anymore, you're well aware I left the order some time ago."  
He spoke without raising his head from the report he was reading, but he could hear the smirk on the man's face all the same, picture it in his head clear as day, like the dozens of times he'd seen it in the gallows courtyard, the mage walking around bold as brass even as the eyes of the entire order were on him.

"Ah, yes of course! We had that going away party for you! How could I forget?"  
Cullen paused, the confusion finally baiting him into lifting his head and looking at the man before him, leaning against the door frame, waving one hand as he spoke and managing to look thoroughly unbothered by anything at all. Just how Cullen remembered him.  
In fact despite the years since his time in Kirkwall, he looked hardly different at all. The same neatly trimmed beard, the same carefully tailored clothes, practical but stylish, the same smug expression. He had cut his hair, the dark brown now brushed back and reaching barely to his jaw instead of the long ponytail he used to sport through Hightown, but that seemed to be the only noticeable difference in close to four years of running from the Chantry after his support of the mage rebellion.  
Clearly apostacy agreed with him.

"Going away party? What are you talking about? You weren't even in the city."  
Cullen knew he'd hardly made friends in his time at Kirkwall, even among the other Templars. Meredith had him tucked firmly under her wing, stoking his hatred of mages after what had happened in the Ferelden Circle and blinding him to the more sinister aspects of her office. Nobody was about to be throwing him parties, especially not Hawke who had fled the city to try and protect the rebel mages more than a year before Cassandra came to recruit him. But the man in front of him simply grinned wide in a way that always made Cullen nervous.

"That doesn't mean I didn't keep up to date on what was going on! We had to celebrate your departure from our lovely city, didn't we? We weren't going to invite you, of course, but it was a fabulous party I assure you! Varric found a-"  
"Can I help you with something, Champion?"  
He cut the man off quickly, a familiar headache beginning to form behind his eyes of the like he hadn't experienced for some time.  
"Oh don't be like that, Cully! How could I come all the way here and not pay a visit to my favourite templar?"  
Before he could even reply, Hawke held up a hand and corrected himself.  
"Okay, okay. Ex-templar."  
He finally stepped out of the doorway, and Cullen had to snatch some reports from the desk before Hawke ruined them by perching himself on its corner.  
"I kept hoping to catch you in the tavern, but I should have remembered that you don't know how to have fun."

"I really don't have time-"  
He began in an exasperated tone, the one he saved specifically for Hawke, the one that had gone unused for blessedly long until now, but he was cut off before he could finish.  
"And that's exactly what I mean! No time for fun!"  
He leaned forward across Cullen's desk, forcing his face into Cullen's line of sight despite his best efforts at avoidance.  
"We could all die at a moment's notice, that's truer than ever these days. It's time to live a little!"  
He stood up straight again, brushing off his clothes and heading back towards the door.  
"Consider this an invitation to make up for the party. We're going to the tavern tonight, and you have to be there. Inquisitor's orders!"  
And before Cullen could protest, the mage had sauntered away towards the main hall.  
What was he supposed to do now?

After much deliberation on the truthfulness of Hawke's words, and how binding an order to go and drink himself stupid at the tavern would even be, he decided he should at least make an appearance. He could sit and talk for a little while, have a single drink, and then get back to his reports. Perhaps that would convince the both of them to leave him alone for a little while.  
That was his rationale as he entered the tavern to the usual assault of sounds and smells. The place was quite busy, every table packed with soldiers drinking and talking, even a few trying their hand at renditions of different local drinking songs to rival the bards quiet music. Lovely how the Inquisition causes people from all over to come together like that.  
The smell of hot food and ale reminded him that he hadn't eaten yet, and that he was hungrier than he realised, but before he could go and look for some food a shout demanded his attention.

"Cullen! You actually came!"  
The elven man waved him over from where they all sat around a circular table in the corner of the room, drinks already on the table.  
"I told you I get results, Inquisitor."  
Hawke replied with a wink, and Lyendrin laughed in response.  
"That you do. Let's hope you're so effective with the Wardens."  
Cullen pulled out a chair and sat down between Varric and the Inquisitor, who turned to look him up and down with a slight frown.  
"Not even going to remove your armour? Aren't you ever off duty?"  
Lyendrin complained, and Hawke was quick to cut in with a quip as always.  
"I told you before, my dear Cully is allergic to having a good time, it's very tragic."  
"Will you stop that?"  
He rounded on Hawke, his frustrations getting the better of him after a long day of headaches and cravings that left him feeling hollow, as if a stiff breeze might blow all his substance away. But the mage only grinned and adopted a look of perfect innocence.  
"Stop what?"  
"The stupid nicknames! I'm not your friend."  
He snapped rather harsher than he intended, and felt as an uncomfortable hush descended around the table.

"Who pissed in his ale this morning?"  
Varric muttered under his breath, and Hawke frowned with a pout.  
"You know, Cullen, that's very hurtful."  
He felt guilty then for his outburst. His troubles weren't their fault, and he'd sworn to himself not to let this affect his duties. Unluckily for him, today his duties included making nice with the Champion of Kirkwall for a few hours.  
"You're right. That was uncalled for, I'm sorry."  
Hawke’s eyes lit up with glee at his words.  
"Did you see that? I got an apology out of Cullen! This calls for more drinks"  
As Hawke briefly left the table to call for another round, Lyendrin leant across to smile at Cullen as he put a hand to his temple with a sigh.

"Thanks for coming."  
"Well, I was under orders." Cullen replied rather ruefully, and the Inquisitor made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes.  
"Oh, come on, you need to take a break every now and then or you'll go insane." He insisted, but Cullen only glanced at Hawke collecting an arm full of mugs from the bar, one for the Commander included.  
"And you think drinking with the Champion of Kirkwall is likely to help with that?"  
He asked, raising an eyebrow, but the Inquisitor didn't seem to catch his meaning.  
"He says you two knew each other, back in Kirkwall."  
"You could say that."  
He muttered in response, but let the matter drop as Hawke returned to the table and placed down the drinks. He took his gratefully, and as he watched everyone else take their own, for the first time he finally put his finger on what had been bothering him about the small festivities since he arrived.  
Each chair at the table was filled, and yet someone he expected to see was still missing.

"No Dorian tonight?"  
He asked, turning to Lyendrin with a questioning glance, but the elf simply shook his head as he lowered his cup.  
"No, just us. Hawke offered to spill the beans on your time in Kirkwall and I couldn't say no to that. Why?"  
"It just seems you two rarely spend much time apart these days."  
Dorian had become the Inquisitor's near constant companion since they established their presence in Skyhold, accompanying him out into the field more often than not, and spending a great deal of their free time together too. If the Inquisitor couldn't be found in his quarters or the garden, it seemed almost a given that he could be found in the library instead.  
Lyendrin seemed perturbed by the suggestion, however, taking on a defensive tone.  
"What of it? I enjoy his company, that doesn't mean I can't spend an evening without him."

Cullen would have let the matter drop, uninterested in prying into the Inquisitor's personal life, but Varric suddenly latched onto the new direction the conversation had taken.  
"No, I think Curly is onto something here for once, I've seen you and the Vint when we're out on work. Ogling each other."  
Lyendrin scoffed into his ale, rolling his eyes in another exaggerated motion.  
"Ogling? What are you talking about?"  
But Varric only wagged a finger in his direction with a knowing grin.  
"You forget, Inquisitor, I have first hand experience at spotting elves and mages who won't admit their feelings for each other."  
Hawke laughed at that, and Cullen saw how his thumb brushed over a gold band on his finger. He almost did a double take before catching Hawke's eye.  
"Hold on- You're married?"  
Hawke grinned.

"Yes, sorry boys, someone finally tied Hawke down." He showed off the ring on his finger to the table with some enthusiasm, before turning to Cullen once more.  
"Do you remember Fenris? Elven man, scowl like looking down the business end of a crossbow, lots of glowy tattoos, can't miss him."  
Then he seemed to remember something and his face lit up with excitement.  
"You must remember him! You caught us once in that alley round the back of the Chantry, he was-"  
"Yes! I remember." Cullen cut in quickly, before the story could go any further, already feeling the heat rising to his face at the memory.  
There was another chorus of laughter around the table, and the Inquisitor gave a look to Varric that suggested he wanted to hear the full story later. Cullen didn't care as long as he didn't have to be there to hear it.

"Anyway, we're getting away from ourselves!" Lyendrin cut in eventually. "This was meant to be an opportunity to hear more about Cullen's templar days."  
"Oh, right!"  
Hawke shuffled slightly in his seat, tapping the table as he decided where to begin.  
"Cullen was Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, second in command to Meredith, so it paid for me to keep an eye on anyone with a vested interest in landing me in the gallows."  
Cullen sighed a little uncomfortably, feeling the need to justify himself.  
"I never had anything against you, Champion."  
"Oh, no, of course not." Hawke replied with dry sarcasm and raised eyebrows. "You just wanted to have me locked up for the rest of my life, nothing personal."

He could feel Lyendrin's eyes on him, the judgement of his former self. He'd known this was a bad idea.  
"I was only doing my job." He tried to argue. "And besides, for your first few years in the city I had no idea you were a mage at all."  
Hawke grinned at that.  
"Really? How long did it take you to figure it out?"  
"Longer than I should be proud of." He admitted reluctantly to the others' quiet laughter. "Even when there were reports of magic, there were just too many refugees for us to reliably know who was where, and in those early years Meredith wasn't so..."  
"Batshit?" Hawke offered as he searched for the right word, and he couldn't prevent a small chuckle from letting slip.  
"Right."

"People were actually rather reluctant to inform on any magical activity in the slums, likely due to that mage healer that had set himself up down there."  
"Anders."   
Cullen was surprised to hear the clear venom in his voice as Hawke suddenly cut in. It was well known that the two of them had been friends of a sort, until everything had come to a head with the Chantry explosion some years ago. He knew the official line was that Hawke had personally executed Anders for his crime, but he had supported the mage rebellion anyway, and Cullen couldn't help but wonder exactly how much of what Varric had told Cassandra and put in that book of his was strictly the truth.  
But after seeing the way his anger rose at the mere mention of his name, he decided against further questions and he felt the need for a swift change of subject.

"Anyway, you made a rather convincing rogue, and by the time stories and rumours of your magic use began really circulating, you'd enough coin and influence in the city that you would have had to start wielding fire outside the chantry doors before we could take you in."  
"Ha!" Hawke laughed, his mood clearly far improved with thoughts of all the trouble he got away with. "And to think Carver spent so long telling me to be more careful."  
The mention of the name stirred yet more memories in him.  
"I knew the other Hawke better, Carver. He joined the Order just before the Hawke's really made a name for themselves in the city, and I was partially responsible for overseeing his training."

The Inquisitor seemed surprised by something he said, turning to Hawke with a puzzled expression.  
"Hold on, your brother was a Templar? But you're..."  
"An Apostate? Yes, Carver never really did see the irony."  
He sighed and stared into his ale as if it had somehow offended him.  
"Still, he didn't try to arrest me so I suppose that's something in favour of brotherly love."  
Cullen thought back to their days in Kirkwall, the young man so eager to prove himself, but also wanting to protect. Not only the people outside the tower but the mages themselves that they watched over, objecting to abuses regardless of the glares it gained him from some of his peers. He had remained in Kirkwall with the rest of the Order when Cullen had been recruited for the Inquisition, and as that thought solidified in his mind, his stomach dropped.  
"Your brother... is he...?"

"He's fine." Hawke clarified, and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. "I had Aveline take him out of the Free Marches when the Order started getting a little too crazy for comfort."  
"I'm glad to hear it. He was a good Templar, hot-headed, but loyal. The other recruits quickly learned not to insult his brother."  
Cullen chuckled slightly, remembering the number of fights that had to be broken up and reprimands given before the recruits learned that calling Thedran Hawke a 'filthy mage' was likely to earn you nothing but a broken nose.  
But as he looked up from his ale Hawke was staring at him rather strangely.  
"He- What?"  
Cullen frowned in confusion.  
"What's so surprising? Your brother stood up for you, is that so strange?"  
Hawke snorted with laughter, taking another drink.  
"If you really knew Carver as well as you say, that's a yes. He was always more likely to stand up to me than for me. I don't think he's ever said more than two nice words to me in his life."

"Well, you know how brothers are." Cullen said with a shrug and a smile. "You fight like hell amongst yourselves, but Maker help the blighter who tries to do your family wrong."  
He thought of his own siblings then, how his sister had managed to project her yelling through the ink after her last letter. He should write them back, when he found the time.  
"It was clear to me he held a lot of respect for you."  
Hawke frowned into his ale, grunting non-committaly.  
"Probably just concerned with his own reputation. Can't escape being related to me after all."  
But Cullen could see that his mood had changed. He stared steadfastly down, avoiding the eyes of the rest of the table, the closest to subdued and quiet Cullen had ever seen him.  
Varric seemed to notice it too, and took the opportunity for a swift change of topic.

"What about you, Pointy? Do you have siblings?"  
"Me?"  
Lyendrin looked up from his ale, already looking slightly flushed though he'd barely had more than one drink.  
"No, it was always just me and my mother. But the clan is close, we're all a sort of family to each other, in a way."  
Cullen saw the way his gaze shifted into the middle distance, clearly thinking on old memories of his clan. It had been months since he left them, and from the way he spoke of his people it was clear that he missed them terribly, but a second later he raised his head once more with a smile.  
"How about I teach you guys a Dalish drinking game?" He suggested, and Hawke grinned widely.  
"Now that's more like it!"

And so the evening went on, with more talking and reminiscing on old times. Despite his best efforts, one drink turned into two, then three, until before he realised it the tavern was emptying out and the four of them were still gathered around the table, a frighteningly large array of empty tankards and bottles surrounding them.  
"Is he alright?"  
Cullen muttered, looking to Lyendrin with vague concern somewhere in the haze of his mind, and the dwarf beside him only laughed.  
"Our dear Inquisitor can't hold his liquor."  
"Mn can!" The elf argued, stumbling slightly as he stood from his chair. "Watch this!"  
Cullen felt the draw in his bones as Lyendrin began the spell and the familiar panic suddenly seized his chest, sobering him up enough to put a stop to the magic.  
It was harder, without the lyrium to draw from, pushing back against the mage's instincts with nothing but yourself. The Inquisitor was beyond drunk though, and simply frowned and looked to him with a pout as the spell faltered.  
"Hey, 'snot fair!" He protested but Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and eased him back into his seat.

"No, I hate to say it- but Cully's right."  
Hawke replied, not seeming anywhere near as inebriated as he should be for the number of drinks he'd had. If Cullen had drunk half as much he'd be under the table, but the man seemed only a little unsteady in his words and his movements, while Cullen himself could already predict the hangover that would assault him the next morning.  
"Magic while drunk never ends well, I learned that the hard way. Multiple times."  
"Multiple times?" Cullen questioned with a raised brow, and Hawke only shrugged.  
"'m a slow learner."  
Cullen laughed at that, harder than he had in a while. It was a novel idea, to be sitting and drinking with two mages, one Dalish and the other Thedran Hawke no less, and yet here he was, enjoying himself in good company. As he raised his head he saw Lyendrin looking somewhat pleased with himself, through his drunken haze.

"I think it might be time to call it a night." Varric suggested, wobbling slightly as he hopped down from his chair.  
"I'll take Hawke back to his room if you take Pointy."  
It took Cullen a few seconds to realise the suggestion was aimed at him, at which point he turned with what he hoped was a shrug.  
"He seems alright to me." He said, looking over to where Hawke and Lyendrin were now having their own hushed conversation, leaning on one another to keep upright.  
"Trust me, I've been drinking with Hawke for years. He seems fine now, but if we're not careful I'll find him tomorrow passed out in the great hall with his small clothes on one of the statues."  
Cullen had horrible visions for a moment of the tongue lashing Josephine would give them if any visiting nobles saw that scene, and nodded his agreement.

His armour clunked as he stood, weighing heavy on his shoulders and exaggerating every misstep. He regretted not removing it earlier, now dreading the task of trying to undo the straps and buckles himself in the state he was in, or faced with the worse thought of sleeping in his full plate.  
It wouldn't be the first time, but he got precious little sleep these days as it was, and he'd really rather not lose another night to his own foolishness.  
He watched as Varric tugged on Hawke's belt until he was convinced to follow him out of the tavern door, and then turned his attention to the incredibly inebriated Inquisitor.

"Come on, L- Ly- Inquisitor." He stammered, eventually giving up on trying to pronounce the unfamiliar syllables in his drunken state.  
The elven man hummed in satisfaction as Cullen pulled him to his feet, giggling as he was shepherded towards the door.  
"It's like Haven." He mumbled as they made their way across to the stairs, and Cullen took a firm grip on his arm to try and ensure he didn't tumble off them. "You came back for me then too, carried me through the snow."  
"O' course." Cullen replied. "Couldn't leave you behind."  
Lyendrin suddenly leaned his weight against him in a way that almost made them both stumble into a wall, resting his head against Cullen's armoured shoulder.  
"You.. you're a good man, Cullen." He slurred as they made their way through the mostly empty main hall. "'M sorry I didn't trust you before"

Cullen paused outside the door to the Inquisitor's quarters, leaning a moment on the wooden doorframe as the world tilted precariously.  
"You didn't trust me?"  
When he had first arrived at Haven, Lyendrin had made no secret of the fact that he disliked working with humans, and Cullen really couldn't blame him given the way many of them had treated him at first. But he'd never been anything but friendly towards them personally, in fact rather a little over-friendly in a way that Cullen hadn't felt brave enough to bring up until he was at least five tankards in.  
"But.. all the flirting..."  
Lyendrin let out a snort of laughter, gripping the front of Cullen's breastplate and pulling himself closer.  
"Well, yeah, I flirted because you're a hunk, Cullen!"  
He felt his face flush harder than just the effect of the alcohol, but already Lyendrin was pulling back, still laughing and continuing on as if nothing had happened.

"But my mother always said... she said-" He fanned out his fingers on either side of his face in a haphazard pattern, attempting to imitate whatever tattoos she had and putting on a truly terrible falsetto voice. "Don't go near templars! They'll take you and snap your staff and lock you up and.. and dock your ears and.. stuff."  
"I wouldn't-"  
He followed the Inquisitor up the final flight of stairs, attempting to interject, but Lyendrin quickly overrode him.  
"I know, I know. She was just tryna scare me. So overprotective! Wouldn't even let me leave the clan for yeeeeears."  
He flopped over backwards onto the bed, giving Cullen a sudden pang of panic as he narrowly avoided smacking his head on the wooden headboard.  
"Didn't want me to go to the conclave either, I had to beg for days. Ha! Maybe I should have listened."

He closed his eyes for a moment, before snapping them open and lurching upright, putting a hand to his forehead.  
"Delavir.. Herald's rest.. I'm not getting any pala rest." He muttered to no one in particular and Cullen found himself trying hard not to laugh once more.  
"You should probably try and get some sleep."  
He suggested and Lyendrin nodded, and then proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed staring into space, as if he'd forgotten exactly how.  
"Do... you need some help?"  
"No. Yes. Maybe? I.. I don't know."  
Lyendrin muttered with a vacant, tired expression, and Cullen sighed with a smile and made his way over to the bed.

"Did you have a good time?" Lyendrin asked as Cullen tried to tug his shirt over his head without them both ending up on the floor.  
"Yes. I did."  
It surprised him how easily the answer came to him, so long since he'd last let himself relax like this in the company of friends.  
So long since he'd even had friends he could be in the company of.  
"Good." The Inquisitor flopped back onto the sheets once more with a sigh, and Cullen decided it was probably best to leave him where he was until he had got some sleep and sobered up a little. He could send someone else to check on him in the morning.

"You're a good friend, Cullen. I wanted you to have some fun. You need it."  
"I-" Cullen started, and then stopped, pausing at the top of the stairs where the Inquisitor's comment had caught him.  
Muddled shame began to rise at the reminder that the Inquisitor was aware of his issues, his failings, but despite what he knew... he was trying to help.  
Faltering as it might have been, he'd made the effort to spend time with him, to pull him out of the armoured shell he'd retreated into for his own protection.  
Maybe it was time to start letting people in.  
"Thank you." He said eventually. "I think I did."

As he made his way back to his room, his head buzzed with a pleasant cotton wool drunkenness that he knew he'd pay for in the morning, when the sun glared through the cracks in his old bedroom ceiling and scouts with armfulls of reports hammered far too loudly on his door. But he found he couldn't regret a second of the time they'd spent that evening.  
The alcohol didn't work as a crutch to fill the void the lyrium had left in him, it never had, but he began to think that the friendship just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in hearing more about my Hawke, check out my work "Controlled Chaos" for more oneshots around him!  
> This piece is also posted there because it's about both of them


	6. After adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adamant fortress was an ordeal for the Inquisitor, both physically and mentally, and the effects don't fade quite so soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first dragon age one shot I wrote, almost exactly a year ago now :')  
> I did my best to resist the urge to edit the hell out of it, so please bear with my old self, as with all the other older oneshots I've been posting

Lyendrin woke with a gasp. The vague memories of a fading dream tugged at his mind, something about his clan? But almost as soon as he tried to grasp them they were ripped away by a searing pain coming from the mark in his hand. A blinding green light illuminated his quarters, pouring from the mark as bolts of lighting shot up his arm, obliterating all other thought. He stifled a gasp and doubled over, clutching his wrist and tensing his whole body against the pain.  
Beside him, Dorian stirred, woken by the bright light and movement in the bed. He let out a small sigh and gripped the pillow harder, burying his face in it. Without turning to look he muttered,  
"I care for you dearly, Amatus, but if that godly hand of yours is going to keep me from my beauty rest I'd rather Corypheus had swallowed the worl-"  
His voice died in his throat. He had pushed himself up onto his elbows and was now staring in horror at Lyendrin, who was doubled over with a grimace contorting his face.  
"Lyendrin! What's wrong?"

  
He sat up, suddenly wide awake, and reached out gingerly to touch his arm. Lyendrin groaned and the light flared brighter for a second as fresh waves of pain echoed across his body. He could do little but grunt in response.  
"I- I'm going to get help, stay here."  
Dorian hurriedly grabbed a robe from the end of the bed and was putting it on when Lyendrin found his voice.  
"No.." He muttered through clenched teeth, shaking his head as his breath came in heavy gasps.  
"No? What do you mean no?"  
A hint of panic entered Dorian's voice as he thought of all the possible things that could have happened. Demons, spirits, rips in the veil. He had walked physically in the fade for Andraste's sake! It had not been done for centuries and the consequences last time didn't bare thinking about. His mind raced wild. What if this was it? What if this was the price to pay for playing with forces they did not understand? How many times had this mark almost killed him? How many more miraculous survivals did he have left?  
"I won't leave you like this!"

  
The light pouring from the mark cast shifting shadows on Lyendrin's face as he rocked slightly in place, steeling his mind against the onslaught. He looked resigned.  
"It will pass, just please..." he forced his head up to catch Dorians eyes, "stay with me."  
Dorian saw the pleading look on his face, and his spirit broke. He returned to sit on the bed and wrapped his arms carefully around Lyendrin's torso. Lyendrin buried his face in Dorian's chest, his whole body rigid, every muscle tensed in an almost foetal position as he waited for the pain to subside.  
Dorian began to hum a tune, a gentle lullaby from his youth, as he traced lines with his fingers on Lyendrin's back. He followed the gentle swirling patterns of his vallaslin, the marks of his faith. Such beautiful shapes on such a beautiful man. He didn't deserve the hand life had dealt him. He deserved a happy, quiet life in the forest he loved so much. Yet here he was, cowed in pain, shouldering all the woes of the world even as the people condemned him for his heritage. It was something he well understood. Dorian bit back a curse as Lyendrin shuddered in his arms, and he vowed to see Corypheus burn for the suffering he had caused.  
Eventually the pain began to subside, leaving only a dull ache in its wake. The green light faded to its usual soft glow and Lyendrin slowly relaxed into Dorian's embrace, his relief was almost palpable.  
"Is it over?" Dorian muttered and Lyendrin nodded weakly, still clinging to his chest.  
"Then rest," he said quietly, bushing the hair out of his face, "I will be here, Amatus, always."

When Lyendrin woke next, he was alone in the bed. He was used to this, Dorian often slinking away in the early hours so they wouldn't be caught together. Only a dull ache in his hand remained of the previous night, and he felt better rested than he expected given his ordeal. He sat up and stretched, moving his left arm gingerly, almost afraid of triggering another attack. As he stood and dressed he noticed Dorian leaning back against the desk in the corner of the room, watching him.  
"How do you feel?" Dorian asked, concern etched into his voice.  
"Much better," he replied, flexing his fingers experimentally, "it will throb for a day or so, nothing more. I'm sorry that I woke you last night, I did not intend to disturb your beauty rest." Lyendrin said with a small smirk, walking over to him. He was happy to see that he had stayed.

  
Dorian laughed and waved a hand, although he harboured a little guilt for his premature remarks. "Come now Amatus, look at me, any more beauty rest and I would be out of your league."  
Lyendrin grinned and wrapped his arms around the back of Dorian's neck, pulling him in for a kiss.  
"Is that so?" He muttered playfully as he pulled away, but he paused as he saw the worry still plain on Dorian's face.  
"What is it?" He asked and moved to sit on the desk next to him.  
"A messenger arrived this morning asking for your presence at a meeting," Dorian began, avoiding the question, "he seemed quite shocked to find me in your doorway instead. I sent him away saying you needed your rest and he did not argue, probably assumed I would hex him if he disobeyed, but you may have questions from your advisors later."  
Dorian seemed slightly amused, and Lyendrin wondered if he was troubled by being 'caught' with the Inquisitor as it were. He supposed Dorian knew as well as he did that word would get around sooner or later.

  
Lyendrin leaned against him. "You should have woken me, I have a job to do and I can sleep once this is over... but thank you, I appreciate the gesture and a good night's rest might be exactly what I need right now."  
"Does the mark trouble you often?" Dorian turned to look at him, finally gathering the courage to ask what had been on his mind.  
Lyendrin sighed. "Not so often anymore. At first the pain was unbearable and came every time the breach expanded. When I halted its progress the pain lessened, and when I closed it for good the attacks became milder and less frequent. I thought the worst was behind me." He smiled a little ruefully. "Of course I should know better. As far as I can tell the mark reacts to disruptions in the veil, I fear our recent foray into the fade has... aggravated it."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" He asked, anger and hurt rising into his voice "You scared me half to death last night! I thought the mark was finally going to kill you." He softened slightly and looked away. "I hated seeing you like that... and thinking of you suffering alone in that amount of pain..."  
Lyendrin looked down at the soft green glow in his palm and closed his fist. "There is nothing that can be done. A healer could not help me, nobody even really understands these rifts, nevermind the effect the mark has on them and me. I would not trouble you and the others without cause, and I cannot be seen to be weak or ailing. No, the mark is my burden to bear, and if it halts Corypheus' plans in any way then it is worth it. Complaining about my situation will do me no good, not when there is work to be done."  
"And what am I? Dragon liver?" He raised an eyebrow at Lyendrin, arms crossed. "Your burdens are my burdens Amatus, I won't let you face this alone." He held out a hand towards Lyendrin who reached forward and intertwined their fingers.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I'm glad you were there with me last night, and I'm glad you're here now." He pulled Dorian's face down for a kiss and Dorian hummed contentedly.  
"Now I really need to go to that meeting," Lyendrin said, pulling away. Dorian pouted.  
"Must you?" He sighed. "Can't someone else save the world for once?"  
Lyendrin laced up his boots and placed a quick kiss on Dorian's cheek.  
"Corypheus won't stop himself."  
"You don't know that, you're not even giving him a chance!"  
Lyendrin grinned, running a hand through his hair as he slipped out of his quarters towards the war room.  
"I don't intend to."


	7. Rumours?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumours about the dalish run abound, especially after Lyendrin takes his position as Inquisitor. He does his best to put them straight.

The small group trudged through the hills of the hinterlands, following reports of lingering rifts in the area for Lyendrin to deal with. The people here were much safer now, with the mage-templar war stopped and the Inquisition helping supply the refugees and patrol the roads. But the threat of demons lingered for as long as tears in the veil continued to emerge, and so Lyendrin was forced to spend much of his time travelling to close them, as the only person alive with the ability.  
Still, the trip wasn't wholly unpleasant. It gave him and Dorian time to talk, and Bull and Cassandra were tactful enough to maintain enough careful distance that their conversation could go unheard without particular effort. It could almost be confused with a date, that is until Cassandra quickened her pace slightly and called out to him.

  
"Lyendrin, I hope I am not being insensitive... but I have a question."  
He raised one eyebrow at her and cocked his head slightly. They'd known each other quite a few months now, working together closely on tasks for the Inquisition, but it seemed her curiosity was still not sated. Perhaps she was only willing to ask now that they were on good enough terms for him not to retaliate to an offensive question, or so she suspected anyway.  
"By your hesitance I assume it is about my being Dalish, correct?"  
"Yes." She replied matter of factly, no beating about the bush with Cassandra. "Do you object?"  
He shrugged. The questions would remain, whether he answered them or not, and it was likely better that she get a real answer from him than continue to listen to whatever tavern tales she had heard.  
"No, I suppose not, go ahead and ask."  
"Well, I'm aware that things said often have no truth to them... but there are stories... and rumours..."

She spoke slowly, measuring every word, and he was forced to rescind his earlier thought, though what debased rumour could cause her to broach the topic so hesitantly made him wonder. He rolled his eyes with a sigh, crossing off possibilities on his fingers.  
"What did we do this time? Steal a child? Curse a crop? Shoot someone's favourite tree full of arrows?"  
"I heard that some clans will... consume the bodies of humans who attack them."  
Lyendrin almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. The rumours and stories weren't new but... that Cassandra would even consider it enough to ask? Surely she knew him better than that? Surely she knew his people were better than that, after spending months working by his side and hearing him speak of his family.  
"So we're cannibals now?"  
He asked, with a pointed air of incredulity and almost humour.  
"Well no." Iron Bull interrupted, seemingly completely non-plussed by the discussion. "It's not cannibalism if it's humans, only other elves."  
"True enough I suppose."

  
He turned his head and tried to read Bulls expression. Could he tell what Lyendrin was thinking? He was never sure just how much his Ben-Hassrath training allowed him to learn, and how much of that he would openly admit to knowing. But before he could think on it more Cassandra interrupted them again.  
"I assume by your reaction I am to take it that it is another foolish tale? Of course you would never eat human meat."  
She seemed to sigh in relief at the way they casually discussed it, placated once more without fear mongering rumours to think on. But Lyendrin wasn't about to let her off that easily for a question so insulting.  
He put on his best neutral expression and shook his head.  
"Not at all. I have eaten human meat actually."  
The clear shock and silence surrounding them was almost enough to break Lyendrin's poker face into a fit of laughter, but he held strong, maintaining his air of indifference.  
"What?"

  
Dorian was looking at him now, an expression of horror gracing his perfect features. Part of Lyendrin wanted to flash him a wink, let him in on the joke before his mind ran away with him, but it would be too difficult without Cassandra seeing and catching on. Besides, he wasn't innocent of strange probing questions either, perhaps this would teach him a small lesson too.  
"You... you have?"  
Cassandra was staring at him openly now, not bothering to hide her shock and horror. He nodded the affirmative with a hum and a kind of morbid curiosity seemed to overcome her.  
"What was it like?"  
"Well...."  
He gave a brief sideways glance towards Dorian with a smirk, before turning his eyes innocently back to the road ahead of them, savouring the build up.  
"He seemed to enjoy it."

  
For half a second confusion reigned on everyone's faces, and then Iron Bull burst into guffaws of laughter and Lyendrin joined in. He watched as Dorian frowned through a burning blush and Cassandra's expression melted with a relieved sigh.  
"That wasn't funny."  
She tried for a scowl, but Lyendrin simply laughed harder, almost doubling over and gripping his staff for support.  
"Oh come on! Your faces! You deserved that just for asking."  
Lyendrin caught a glimpse of Dorian's furious expression, face beet red, and flashed him a sheepish grin behind the giggles, while Cassandra chuckled slightly and shook her head.  
"I suppose I did. Alright, no more questions."  
He waved an arm through the air with a shrug, shoulders still shaking with the dying laughs.  
"Oh don't stop on my account, I can do this all day."  
Iron Bull smirked.  
"Is that what he said?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write a whole oneshot for a stupid dick joke? Perhaps.  
> I have no excuse, I'm very sorry, but I'm inflicting it on you anyway


	8. Quiet moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian likes to read, Lyendrin doesn't. They find a compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy a tiny piece of fluff for no other reason than I love these two

"Reading again?"  
Dorian didn't even need to look up from his book to recognise the voice that had entered his little corner.  
"I don't know how you do it, staring at books for hours on end."  
Lyendrin continued, worming his way in to sit sideways across the armchair, head resting on Dorians shoulder. Dorian made the usual indignant sounds of protest as he did so, but Lyendrin failed to care as he made himself comfortable in Dorians lap and peered at the book he was reading.  
"Are you quite finished?"  
Dorian grumbled, but even as he did so he shifted to hold the book in one hand and wrap the other arm around Lyendrin's shoulders.  
"Yes."  
Lyendrin sighed as he relaxed into the chair, closing his eyes for a moment. There was a brief stint of silence punctuated only by the turning of pages, before Dorian spoke up again, eyes still focused on the words in front of him.

  
"It's a story, about a group of mages from the dawn of the imperium. Probably heresy here in the south but what isn't."  
This drew a small chuckle from Lyendrin who opened his eyes and shifted to look at Dorian directly as he continued.  
"It's supposedly based in fact but almost certainly pure fiction as most histories are. It's really quite good, I don't know why you dislike stories so."  
Dorian finally tore his eyes away from the pages to face him as Lyendrin replied with some reproach.  
"I have no problem with stories. I love stories, I know hundreds of them. It's books I have a problem with. There's no need, it's clumsy and encumbering. If a story is worth telling you will remember it, you don't need to write it all down."  
Dorian scoffed.  
"No wonder you lost so much of your history if that's the attitude you take."  
Lyendrin scowled and elbowed him in the ribs which was met with a wince and a hasty apology.  
"We don't write things down _because_ of the loss of our history. You can't carry a library on halla back you know, and written elvish is practically extinct. Recording our legends in the common tongue would do them a disservice, and would require resources better spent elsewhere."  
He buried his head back in the crook of Dorian's neck.  
"Besides, stories are better told aloud. It brings them to life far better than trawling through some dusty old tome."  
"Well there's no accounting for taste."  
Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes, but flipped back to the start of the book as he did so.  
"But if you insist."

  
He began to read aloud from the first page of the book and Lyendrin's surprise quickly melted into satisfaction. He closed his eyes and allowed Dorians voice to fill his mind, chasing away any other nagging thoughts and responsibilities.  
Dorian had been right, though Lyendrin would die before admitting it to him, the story was quite good and he found himself far more invested in the characters lives than he expected. But more than the story he simply enjoyed the time spent together, the chance to relax after a day of meetings and planning and allow himself to do nothing more strenuous than breathe in and out. It reminded him of when he was a child, being told ancient stories by his mother or the other adults in the clan. Even vaguer old memories tugged at the edge of his consciousness, something that made him feel wistful and homesick in a way he didn't quite understand.  
He felt safe.

Dorian continued to read aloud, taking his cues from small sighs and hums or muttered comments by his ear. Even as his foot went numb from Lyendrin's weight across his legs, he didn't stop or complain, the man deserved a break after all.  
His back began to ache from the continued position, and he was about to ask Lyendrin to shift a little so he could find a more comfortable spot, when he realised he'd been quiet now for a while. He turned to see Lyendrin's head buried into his shoulder, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily in a soft rhythm. Lyendrin's mouth hung open slightly and Dorian found himself smiling like a fool before he caught himself and corrected his expression.  
"Lyendrin?"  
The whispered word elicited no response, and neither did the slightly louder repeats that followed. He was fast asleep, and Dorian quickly realised he would be stuck in that spot for some time.  
Well, at least he had a book.


	9. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emprise du Leon is full of red lyrium, red templars, and also.... snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my inquisitor goofing off and having some fun with his friends because he deserves to have a good time occasionally

Emprise du Leon was cold as always, a thick blanket of snow covering every surface. Dorian had complained about the foul weather until Lyendrin had acquiesced and said he could remain at Skyhold, at which point Solas had offered his company on the trip instead. While the snow had stopped falling some hours ago, the deep covering even on the roads made progress slow and frustrating. Varric was almost up to his waist in it, and complaining profusely about damp trousers. Iron bull was making fine progress, occasionally sweeping some of the snow out of their way with his battleaxe, but Lyendrin didn't envy him still walking around shirtless in the sub zero temperatures. Only Solas seemed to be unaffected by the weather, but Lyendrin had known him long enough to read the discomfort and frustration in his face and his gait.  
After a few more miles, the boredom and low morale finally tipped Lyendrin over the edge. He slowed slightly to the back of the group, pretending to inspect some local plant life. When the others passed him, he quickly gathered a few handfuls of snow and packed it together.

"Come on boss, we've still-"  
As Iron Bull turned around to address him, Lyendrin launched the snowball at full force towards him, and only his quick reflexes let the snow deflect off his forearm instead of his face. He quickly adopted a huge grin as he leant to one side, gathering armfulls of snow, but Lyendrin was already scampering away to avoid the retaliation with a laugh light on his lips.  
Iron Bull launched a huge snowball at Lyendrin, who nimbly jumped to one side, and the projectile hit Varric square in the side of the head instead. He yelled in indignation, brushing snow from his hair before entering the fray for revenge.  
They quickly separated into informal teams, the mission all but forgotten. Solas and Iron Bull retreating to the tree line and Lyendrin and Varric crouching behind a stone outcropping.

Initially the Inquisitor and Varric had the advantage. The thin, sparse trees made for poor cover, and Iron Bull was a large target. He was on the receiving end of many snowballs, and though he threw the returning ones with great force, they weren't particularly accurate. Both Lyendrin and Varric however, were used to ranged fighting, and made each attack count.  
He rose above his current piece of cover to aim at Solas, and a powerful shove nearly knocked him off his feet as a snowball barrelled into his shoulder. He saw Varric tumble over backwards into a snowdrift, and looked up to see Solas stood with the smallest of smug expressions, and his staff glowing slightly at the end.

"Hey!" Varric shouted indignantly as he clambered upright and attempted to brush the snow from his clothes before it melted in.  
"No magic, that's cheating!"  
"How is it cheating?" Solas replied in an even tone. "It's no more unnatural for me to throw with my magic than with my hands."  
"Magic may be natural to you, Chuckles, but it's certainly not natural to me. It's unfair."  
"As you may have noticed, life is not fair, master Tethras. Besides, you have a mage on your side too." Solas remarked, but Lyendrin quickly cut into the conversation.  
"Hold on. I don't know any ice magic!"  
Solas finally broke out into a smug smile, mirth clear in his voice.  
"Well, that's hardly my fault now is it?"  
It suddenly dawned on Lyendrin that Iron Bull was nowhere to be seen, but before he could react to this realisation a great pile of snow came tumbling from a high ridge right on top of them. They dug their way out, and fierce battle resumed.

Lyendrin and Varric put up an impressive fight, but with the addition of Solas' magic and his and Bull’s combined tactical minds they were quickly buried.  
"Okay, okay! We surrender!" Lyendrin yelled eventually, arms raised as he stepped out into the open.  
Slowly they all emerged into the centre of their battle arena, in various states of disarray. Their clothes were damp and frozen solid in some places, clumps of snow packed hard into the fibres. Lyendrins lips were blue with cold and Iron Bull rubbed his arms vigorously for warmth. Varric was covered in partially melted snow from head to toe, and even Solas was shivering slightly as the wind picked up.

Lyendrin cupped his hands and a small flame appeared between his palms. He concentrated intently and the flame grew in size, offloading more heat than was natural for a fire of that size. He sighed happily as the warmth reached him and his hot breath fogged up in the frigid air. He held his arms outstretched to give more space for the large flame, and Varric came to stand closer, trying to warm his hands against it.  
Solas followed suit, but Lyendrin pulled his hands back quickly.  
"Ah ah ah, you're a mage." He muttered smugly. "Make your own fire."  
Solas met his eyes and it filled Lyendrin with satisfaction to see the clear understanding behind them, and the conflict and annoyance running through his mind.  
After a brief silent stand off, Solas eventually agreed to play along. Perhaps in order to get the warmth he desired, or as a friendly gesture, he sighed and muttered.  
"Inquisitor, I don't know any fire spells."  
Lyendrin suppressed a satisfied laugh and did his best to replicate the earlier tone.  
"Well, that's hardly my fault now is it?"


	10. Culture shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dalish tradition forbids relationships with humans, so what is an elf to do when he finds himself in love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the truly awful elvish in this, I wrote it so long ago I don't even really remember what it's supposed to say

"Say something elven."  
The request was whispered breathlessly somewhere around his neck as he perched bare chested on the edge of his bed, hands occupied with a series of buckles on Dorians robes. He pulled back slightly, catching Dorian's eye.  
"What?"  
"Anything. I want to hear you speak it."  
The velvet tones were enough to make Lyendrin melt as Dorian leaned further in to close the gap, but the mood was broken. He pushed away, knitting his brow into a frown.  
"No."

"What? Why not?"  
Dorian sat up straighter now, his half fastened robes hanging strangely from his shoulders, clearly feeling the change in tone.  
"Half the sentences you say are incomprehensible to me when we're out on missions, but you never speak a word of it when we're alone together."  
Lyendrin crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, his tone turning venomous.  
"The ancient language of my people isn't some toy to satisfy your... your elf fetish!"

"Wha- what? I don't- that's not-"  
He saw the expression on Dorian's face melt from shock into hurt and Lyendrin guilty avoided his gaze.  
"Is that really what you think of me? Am I still just the evil magister to you, even now?"  
He knew he was being unfair, that Dorian didn't mean any harm, but he didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. He wanted to get lost in his arms and leave any other thoughts for another day. Just let him have tonight.

"No. No, I'm sorry Dorian, I didn't mean that I just-"  
As he struggled for words he wrapped his arms around himself to ward off a chill now settling on his bare skin, the warm flush of the moment quickly dissipating. Dorian cut into the silence with a gentle, uncertain tone.  
"Perhaps I picked a bad moment. Maker knows I'm not good at these things. I only meant that you don't need to hold back around me. I don't have a problem with you being elven, Lyendrin. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide that part of yourself just to please me."

It tugged on Lyendrin's heart to hear how he worried, how he cared.  
"That's not it, Dorian, I... I'm sorry. It's not about you, it's about me."  
The guilt settled in his chest knowing how Dorian was blaming himself and he fought to control the frustrated tears that began to well in his eyes.

He felt as Dorian retreated from their closeness and looked up to see him hastily re-fastening his robes.  
"I understand, Inquisitor. There's no need to continue the charade. If you've had all you desire you should simply say so and I will be on my way."  
Lyendrin stiffened at the change in tone and the formal use of his title. He heard the hurt in Dorian's voice that he was desperately trying to hide and stretched out his arm, grabbing hold of Dorian's shoulder.  
"No! Dorian, what are you talking about? Of course I don't want you to go!"

Dorian angrily shook free of his grasp.  
"Then what is it? Don't play with me, Lyendrin, why are you acting like this? If you mean what you say, that this is more than just sex, why do you keep holding back?"  
He couldn't let this continue. It was one thing to torture himself over it, but he had no idea it had been affecting Dorian so. The emotions all boiled forth in a confused tangle, the thoughts so scattered they fell from his mouth without pause.

"Because this flies in the face of everything I have ever been taught. Because this is a betrayal of my clan and my family, everyone who ever held me dear. Because you are ma vhenan, my heart, and I love you and I shouldn't. Ar lath ma, ara'len. Ane arasha, ane enansal. Ar isalan na."  
His arms gestured wildly as he spoke, betraying the tension he felt. The elven slid off his tongue so naturally, every thought and feeling he hadn't allowed himself to have.

But eventually the fire that propelled him slowed to a simmer, and he unconsciously reached up to tug on the long hair he no longer possessed, hand settling on the back of his neck as his words became more measured.  
"I am dalish, Dorian, my heritage defines me. Bonding with a human would be unthinkable, but you are.... everything to me. So if I can't be an elf in love with a shemlen... I thought maybe I could keep those parts of me separate. Maybe I could simply be a man in love with you."

"In love?" Dorian echoed hesitantly and Lyendrin covered his face with his hands, turning away to hide the furious heat that burned on his skin and the tears slowly tracking down his cheeks. He'd held everything back and then thrown it at him all at once. Like every time before he'd shown his heart far too soon. Dorian would panic and leave, especially given how hesitant he had been to have a relationship in the first place. It was too much and it was his fault as usual.  
"I'm sorry. I've screwed everything up. I-"  
He was interrupted by Dorian pulling his hands away from his face and planting his lips firmly on Lyendrin's.

The surprise paralysed him for a second and he simply sat wide eyed, before melting into the kiss, his wrists still grasped tightly in Dorian's hands.  
"You're such a hypocrite, you know."  
Dorian muttered with a smirk, pulling away only a few centimetres so that his hot breath still brushed against Lyendrin’s cheeks.  
"You go on and on about how you don't care what people think, how I should worry less."  
Lyendrin’s heart still hammered uncertainly in his chest and he pulled back.   
"I'm sorry, I've been a fool."

Dorian saw his hesitation and the mirth disappeared from his voice.  
"I never wanted to make you choose between me and your family. I know what they mean to you."  
His tone was low and heavy, the weight of his own family pressing on his mind.  
"Dorian, you didn't make me do anything. I made my choice long ago."  
He smiled but Dorian couldn't look him in the eye.  
"Yes... I suppose you must have."  
His tone was resigned and Lyendrin almost laughed at his obliviousness.

"Dorian, you idiot, I choose you. I chose you the moment I kissed you in that library..."  
He smiled as the memory resurfaced in his mind. Heart pounding, mind buzzing, every desire he'd buried finally winning out over his caution, taking the leap he'd dreamt of for weeks. Now it was time to take another.  
"I was just afraid... but you're right. My people are wrong about this, I find that more and more. If they can't accept it then I want no part of them. It's time to stop holding back."  
He leant forward once more and took Dorian's face in his hands, kissing him slowly and gently, savouring the moment between them.  
Dorian's hands flew to his waist, but instead of roaming as they had before they simply remained, a soft pressure in a comforting spot.

The two of them collapsed back onto the bed after a few soft moments, the passion of the start of the evening long forgotten, replaced with quiet companionship and thoughtful minds.  
"Well then." Dorian began after a moment, a small smile creeping into his features. "You were talking far too quickly earlier for me to understand. Why don't you repeat all that, but slower, and tell me what it means."  
Lyendrin blushed.  
"Must I? It's mostly nonsense, I was just-"  
"Yes, you must. I insist, and you owe me now."  
Lyendrin leaned into him.  
"I guess I do now. Okay."

He began to repeat the string of elven, stopping every few words to translate. It didn't take long for him to become a red-faced mess.  
"My my, who knew the dread Inquisitor could be so syrupy."  
Dorian's smirk made Lyendrin groan, grinning and blushing as he hid his face in Dorian's shoulder.  
"Oh, please stop, I've embarrassed myself enough tonight."  
Dorian laughed and pulled him closer.  
"What was that first one? Vhenan? I quite like the sound of that. Vhenan."  
He repeated it and the sound sent a flutter through Lyendrin’s stomach. He sighed happily and laced his fingers through Dorian's own.  
"Ma Vhenan."


	11. Tasty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball at the winter palace brings unexpected thoughts to light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another short one from an old prompt

Lyendrin slipped back into the garden, sighing with relief as the fresh air helped soothe the stress that had built over the past few hours. The palace was stifling, an almost labyrinthine expanse of gilded rooms and prying eyes from behind extravagant masks. A thousand nobles studying his every movement, every word, wondering how a mage, and an elf of all things, could possibly lead the Divine's inquisition.

But it was easy enough to play their game. Answer a question with a question, complement and charm but give nothing away, and if you stopped and listened for just a moment, an intoxicated lord would say enough to keep Leliana busy for weeks.  
Even so, it was exhausting. The constant performative 'Game', trying to investigate the palace and root out would be assassins without being seen to be improper. Every movement was measured, always on guard, looking over his shoulder.

He walked over to where Dorian was standing, allowing himself a moment to relax. Brief seconds of quiet music, a cool breeze, and easy conversation, away from the demands of the ball.  
"I'll be ready for your signal." Dorian confirmed as Lyendrin approached, pre-empting whatever question might be on his mind.  
"Provided this spicy punch isn't as strong as it seems." He added, sparing a sideways glance at the glass in his hand.  
Lyendrin smiled, and whisked the glass away from him, ignoring his grumbled protests.  
"You know there's no shortage." Dorian said with a pout. "You can get your own drink."  
Lyendrin took a long draught and then handed the glass back, considerably lighter than before.  
"I shouldn't drink too much." He replied in a slightly regretful tone. "But that is rather tasty."  
"You're alright, they aren't serving ale." Dorian replied playfully and Lyendrin slapped him lightly on the arm.

Perhaps the punch was indeed stronger than it seemed, because even that small amount gave Lyendrin the extra courage to voice what had been on his mind since they arrived.  
"Don't wear yourself out mingling." He said with a smile. "I expect a dance before this is over."  
Dorian met his eye with some surprise and almost a little fear, but quickly buried it in humor.  
"Dancing with the evil magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais? How shocking."

Lyendrin knew he would react like this, which was why he hadn't mentioned it the first time he came to talk. Always Dorian shied away from public affection, so concerned for the affect their relationship would have on his reputation, the reputation of the Inquisition.  
"They'll live." Lyendrin replied simply. He didn't care, he never had. His reputation in the eyes of the nobles was ruined enough by his heritage and his ability, he didn't care what they might think of him, he simply wanted to enjoy the time they had together.  
"You say that now." Dorian replied with a mischievous grin. "If you can find me ten silk scarves, I've got a dance that will really shock them."

For a moment Lyendrin didn't know what to say. His mind was suddenly and completely occupied elsewhere and he felt heat rising to his face, and somewhere else far less appropriate for a public function. As he looked over he saw Dorian smirking, he'd done this on purpose, presumably to avoid the conversation Lyendrin had provoked. He picked his jaw up off the floor and made an effort to stop staring like a fool.

"Have you seen anything else I should know about?" He asked after a moment, letting the matter rest and attempting to re-focus his mind on the task at hand before he got completely carried away.  
"I'm trying to keep watch for magic. You know Tevinters. We can't cross a room without casting a spell." He joked, before settling into reassuring tones.  
"If there are Tevinter agents here, we'll find them."

Lyendrin nodded and sighed, unable to come up with another excuse to delay returning to his duties.  
"I should get back to it. Don't get too drunk while I'm gone." He said with a smirk and a wave and Dorian replied in similar humour.  
"You ask so much of me."  
Reluctantly, Lyendrin returned to the ballroom, his spirits raised, and determined now to ask much more of him when the night was through.


	12. Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early mornings are easier with someone by your side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just pure tooth rotting fluff before I start dropping angst after angst

Lyendrin slowly opened his eyes to the early dawn light falling onto the bed. He turned over onto his side and smiled wistfully at Dorian laid beside him, facing away towards the balcony.  
He was yet to get used to the sight, waking up with the other man resting quietly beside him, but each day he did so brought him closer to the conclusion that he wished to continue this way for the rest of his life.  
A sudden urge took over him and he reached out with one hand, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the edge of Dorian's ears, following across the smooth curve at the top. He still found them strange, after all Dorian was the only human he had ever gotten so close to, in more ways than one. Such a small thing that marked them as different, set their worlds apart.

Suddenly Dorian shifted and a pillow hit him in the face followed by an indignant protest.  
"Kindly keep your hands to yourself." Dorian muttered and Lyendrin laughed as he peeked out from behind the pillow.  
"Oh?" He teased. "That's not what I recall you saying last night."  
Dorian flushed a deep red and Lyendrin grinned wider at seeing him get so flustered.  
"Well, last night was one thing, yanking me awake by my ears is quite another."  
"Sorry," He apologised, his voice still light with amusement, "They're just so.... small... and round. It's strange. How do you hear anything at all?" He enjoyed teasing Dorian but part of his question was almost serious. It was still a novelty for him to be surrounded by humans instead of elves, even after so many months, and he found it was the smallest differences in their cultures and mannerisms that surprised him the most.

"I can hear your thinly veiled insults just fine thank you very much." Dorian pouted, and Lyendrin's expression turned to soft shock for a second.  
"Insults? No I didn't mean- I just think they're cute that's all."  
"Cute? Yes- well- I-" He stammered, and Lyendrin laughed again to see him lost for words. It seemed he wasn't as smooth as he tried to appear, or perhaps he simply wasn't used to such soft affections. The thought made him sad, Dorian deserved the world and Lyendrin was determined to give it to him. Dorian huffed and shoved the pillow into his face again.

"We can't all be blessed with your gigantic nug ears." He said with a laugh and Lyendrin made a show of offence.  
"You can't say things like that you know, I'll report you to Josephine for anti-elf behaviour." He threatened gleefully and Dorian groaned.  
"She already has to explain away a tevinter mage being so close to the dear Inquisitor, if I cause her any more hassle I think she may simply get Leliana to do me in."  
Lyendrin leaned over and kissed him. "I'd never let her, besides, you're worth the trouble." He winked and finally climbed out of the bed, leaving behind the warm blankets in favour of getting dressed and running down to the kitchens for something to eat.

"You're not going to join me?" He asked as he turned to see Dorian had flopped back down into the comfort of the bed.  
"Later, Amatus, it's far too early for you to be so insufferably cheerful"  
"Have it your way then, Vhenan." He placed a soft kiss on the back of Dorian's head and was satisfied as the other man hummed contentedly.  
"I'll be back soon." He said over his shoulder as he slipped out of the room, bare feet moving silently down the halls.  
He was still used to early mornings from his life outdoors, when they would rise and rest with the sun. Life was different at Skyhold, the structured days of the humans he lived with had been hard to adjust to, but he had adjusted in the end. This was his life now, and the longer he spent here in Skyhold the easier it became to accept that. After all, Dorian was here, and what else could he ask for?


	13. Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons love nothing better than old memories and missed opportunities

Lyendrin approached the sprawling city. He had never seen something so large and busy. The shemlen were everywhere, talking loudly and bustling past one another. He missed the quiet of his forest, but he was determined to meet his goal. He kept his hood up as he entered the town, pulling the coat tight around his shoulders to obscure his ears and the markings on his face. The staff in his hand was giveaway enough, but he could not leave it behind and traverse the unknown defenceless. So he took great care to hide all other signs of his dalish heritage, lest the local templars put two and two together and pursue him for being an apostate. He had no desire to spend the remainder of his life in a shemlen circle. 

He saw elves scurrying about the market place, carrying goods for noble lords and ladies. He had been told of the plight of his people here, how they lived in the alienage slums and played servants to the shemlen lords. It made his blood boil to see his people reduced so, and his thoughts drew back again to how he could easily have been one of them.   
He stepped past the gates into the alienage, and he remembered. This had been his home. The large tree in the centre of the square where he had played. The homes, cramped and worn but so full of light and love. The home he had been taken from, denied. 

He walked slowly past the buildings, ignoring the suspicious glances from the other elves, and then he stopped. He stood in front of a house, small and battered, patched up in many places with sheets of cardboard and wooden planks, bright flowers planted just outside the doorway. He stood, simply staring at the door, unmoving.  
This was it. What did he hope to find in there? Would they recognise him? Would they even want to see him? They had given him up once after all.

His deliberations were brought swiftly to an end as the door opened in front of him. An elven man stood before him, grey hair cropped short and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.  
"Can I help you?" He said sharply, waving the cooking pot held in one hand almost threateningly. "Or are you just here to stare at my door all day?"   
Lyendrin couldn't find words to explain. His memories of his parents were so vague and it had been so many years. He dropped his hood.  
"Are you... Jierda?" He asked hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer.  
The other man stared, and the empty pot clattered to the ground as he saw the young elven man stood before him, eyes widening at the sight of dalish markings, a mage's staff, and a face so horribly familiar. Confusion and a hope he wouldn't allow himself to have crossing his face.  
"L-Lyendrin?"  
Lyendrin replied with a nod, not trusting himself to speak further, and Jierda grasped him tightly in an embrace.  
"My son."

Tears welled in Lyendrins eyes as he was led inside, the house was as he remembered, but everything seemed so much smaller now. He placed a hand softly on the wall, overwhelmed with feelings and memories, when an elven woman turned the corner of the room. She was short, with long red hair now streaked with grey, and large pointed ears even by elven standards.  
"Jierda? Is everything alrig-" she stopped as she saw Lyendrin standing in the hallway. She didn't hesitate further, one look was all she needed.  
"Mother.." Lyendrin spluttered as she buried her face in his chest, already weeping.   
"My boy." She smiled up at him and placed a hand on the side of his face. "Oh how much you've grown." 

They sat at the table, the meal forgotten, and they spoke. For long hours they talked, Lyendrin told them of his upbringing with the dalish and his parents shared memories of when he was young. They smiled and laughed and Lyendrin had never felt so content. This is what he always wanted, the family he always yearned for somewhere in his heart.  
"I'm so glad you've come back to us Lyendrin." His mother said with shining eyes.  
"We missed you so much, it will be so nice to have a full house once more."  
Lyendrins heart fell at the hopeful expression on her face.  
"I- I can't stay. You know that." He said quietly, turning his face away from them.  
"What? Don't you want to stay with us, son?"  
His father asked in a disappointed voice, and even that small endearment made his heart ache with longing.  
"My place is with my clan, I have a future with them. I would always be in danger here, putting you in danger. You know what they do to apostates, that's why you sent me away in the first place."

He wanted them to understand, to give him their blessing to return to the wilds, but only watched as the sadness on his parents face turned to anger and they rose from their seats.  
"He comes just to reject us!" His father shouted.  
"Ungrateful boy! He doesn't want our love, we were right to send him away!" His mother hissed, and suddenly he was backing away towards the door, fear and confusion rising as quickly in his chest as the tears in his eyes.  
"What? No! You have to understand! I love you!"  
He frantically tried to find the words to explain, but his parents loomed before him. Eyes turned red and fingers extended into talons, their faces twisting into something monstrous.  
Now pressed up against the door he grabbed his staff and leveled it at the two demons bearing down on him. Closing his eyes, he summoned his will and released a wave of force at the same time as a scream.  
"Begone!"

He sat up in bed with a start, panting as he felt the sweat running down his back. Slowly his racing heart returned to normal and he took in his surroundings. He was in his room at Skyhold, Dorian asleep in the bed beside him, wrapped up in the blankets as if he were sleeping on a snowy hillside. Lyendrin took comfort from the closeness as his breathing steadied. It was still night, some small shafts of moonlight filtering through his window to illuminate the bed.  
He tried desperately to recall the faces from his dream, the voices, the places, anything at all. But already they were slipping from his grasp, returning to muddied memories.

Slowly and carefully he got out of bed and walked towards his wardrobe, moving as quietly as possible to avoid waking his partner.  
He opened the doors and took out the hooded coat from the back. He rarely wore it anymore, his new position didn't really demand stealth like his life used to, and the resources of the Inquisition could get him many finer garments.  
But he couldn't bring himself to throw it away.  
This was the coat he had worn when he first left his clan, racing away into the night in anger and longing, searching for things he could never have.  
It was the coat he had worn to the conclave, hiding amongst the circle mages until suddenly everything went wrong in a way nobody could expect.  
It was the coat he had worn when fleeing Haven, pulling it tight against the snowstorm, holding onto it like a lifeline.  
He ran the rough fabric through his fingers, caught up in memories years old, but long dead thoughts would not grant him peace.  
He put the coat back, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes and walking out onto the balcony. He sat in silence as the sun rose, watching the world unfold, and putting old thoughts and memories where they belonged in the depths of his mind. They would not help him here.


	14. Meeting Ameridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Inquisitors meet, and have more in common than they expected

He never wanted this.  
He had been happy in his clan, he never aspired to leadership and knew that even as first he would be unlikely to gain it anytime soon, unless some disaster befell the clan. And some disaster it was. He didn't just gain leadership over his clan, he gained leadership over a nation. Thousands of lives resting in his hands with no experience, no training. He was expected to make world altering decisions in cultures he had barely visited and didn't understand. They looked to him to decide their future, to shepherd them into a better world, and he couldn't refuse. He couldn't let them flounder. He had the mark, he was chosen. By devine intervention, fate, destiny, or simply dumb luck, it didn't matter. This was his responsibility and he took it on without complaint.

But he couldn't help feeling like he wasn't cut out for it, like he fumbled the job. He knew what the people muttered behind his back. How could a "knife-ear", a "savage", be the Inquisitor? The leader of the holy army? How could a mage be allowed such freedoms? Shouldn't he be banished back to the forest, locked up in a circle, taught a lesson about aspiring above his station?  
And he didn't always disagree. He had longed to return to his clan, to leave it all behind. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been a noble human warrior? Someone who could truly unite the hearts and minds of the people. Someone who understood human politics and the Chantry and could do what was right.

Wrong place wrong time. That was what Corypheus had said. And Lyendrin wasn't sure he was wrong. Even though Corypheus was defeated, even though he had won, he couldn't help feeling like someone else could have done it better. Like he was an imposter within his own position, undeserving, unworthy. How many had died under his care? At Haven? In the battles against Corypheus? Simple civilians he couldn't save.  
This is what he had asked himself, pondered for months over why he became Inquisitor and if someone else could have done a better job. 

Until he met Ameridan. 

The search for the last Inquisitor, his predecessor, who disappeared 800 years ago and faded into obscurity. Once the world was somewhat stabilised by Corypheus' defeat, he felt obligated to help, to honour the man who came before him and shouldered similar burdens. But he had no idea how similar.  
He stood in front of Ameridan and could scarcely believe his own senses. A mage. A dalish mage. One of his people had stood against the chaos just as he did, had fought the darkness to his final breath, protecting people that were his and people that were not. And history had forgotten him, written over the inconvenient details of his power and his heritage. Filled in their own sanitised version to fit their agendas and their egos.

A million emotions had assailed him at once. Anger, joy, relief, sadness. He had no time to process them as events moved apace and he must finish what Ameridan had started 800 years ago.  
But now that the dragon was dead? Now that the world had been saved once more by two Inquisitors stretched across 800 years of history, more similar than any would have allowed them to know. Now all he could do was think.

Ameridan had been Dalish, one of his people. The position of Inquisitor no longer felt so strange, so foreign. Ameridan had found room in his faith for both Elven gods and Andraste, perhaps his heritage did not have to make him an imposter in the Chantry. Perhaps this was where he belonged. It felt like more than dumb luck now, more like it was his fate to finish what Ameridan had started. Brush away the lies and remind the world that mages were not dangerous, that elves were not lesser. Relief and confidence filled him to think of another Dalish mage holding the position he now held. He wasn't an imposter, this was his duty and if Ameridan could do it, so could he. He was meant for this after all, the Inquisition was part of the legacy of his people, it didn't belong solely to the humans. He wasn't alone.

But joy could not cloud all his fears and doubts. For all Ameridan had done, the dales were still destroyed, his deeds were erased from history and his contributions forgotten. Would that happen to him? In 800 years would they tell the tale of the noble human warrior who defeated Corypheus after all? He did not wish for fame or glory, but the thought of his heritage and his magic being replaced made his blood boil. The thought of his people being ignored and oppressed despite all they did for the world. He would not let all he and Ameridan had sacrificed be forgotten, he would not let them be erased.

Lyendrin became vaguely aware that he had been staring into the fire for some time, and that there was a conversation happening around him.  
"-tch a bucket of water, that'll get his attention"   
The Iron Bull suggested to Varric with a chuckle.  
"A bucket of water, Tiny? You've got no style. I bet Sparkler could do something to get his attention." He raised his eyebrows suggestively in Dorian's direction and Dorian shot him an exasperated look.  
Lyendrin raised his head and turned to them with a sheepish grin. "Sorry," he chuckled, "lost in thought."

"We noticed." Dorian replied, settling next to him by the fire "I called your name 3 times, ignore me like that again and I'll take Bull's advice." Dorian took his hand and Lyendrin laid his head on Dorian's shoulder.  
"I hope the dragon didn't hit you too hard upside that pretty head of yours." Dorian muttered playfully, but Lyendrin didn't rise to the bait.  
"I'm just thinking."  
"About Ameridan, I assume? The Chantry certainly did a good job of covering up that particular surprise. Are you... alright?"

Lyendrin let out a slow breath.  
"I never thought I was good enough for this. The whole Inquisition was a product of a series of unlikely events. Dumb luck and circumstance. I'm Dalish. An elf. A 'knife-ear'." He sneered at the word. "On top of that I'm a mage, dangerous, not to be trusted." He sighed. "Someone else would have been better, a human, a noble, a warrior. Someone who understood human politics and culture. Someone who understood the chantry and human faith. How many more allies could they have gained? How many men could have been saved if they had been supported without question?"

Dorian began to speak angrily. "Bullshit, Amatus, nobody could have done this better than you. Look-" but Lyendrin cut him off.  
"It's okay, Dorian, after seeing Ameridan I-" He smiled. "Maybe it wasn't dumb luck after all. The last Inquisitor was a Dalish mage. He was one of my people. Maybe I'm not such an imposter, maybe this was what the world needed. They had forgotten him, he'd been pushed aside and erased from history." Lyendrin's voiced was tinged with bitterness. "Maybe the world needed someone to make them remember, to show the worth in an elf, in a mage." He sighed "I just wonder what will happen when I am gone, will history treat me the same?"

Dorian leaned in for a kiss and the contact quietened Lyendrin's racing mind.  
"Nobody has more worth than you, Amatus," he said quietly as they broke apart. "And nobody will ever be allowed to forget that, not on my watch."  
Lyendrin turned his head as the others spoke.  
"Yeah, don't worry about it, Inquisitor." Varric said with a chuckle "I'll make sure to make you extra elfy when I write about all this. Ears a foot long, elven magic out the waazoo. Nobody will be able to ignore it once my book becomes a best seller."  
Lyendrin sighed and shook his head with a small laugh "Thanks, Varric."

"Who cares what the history books say? We'll be dead and gone by then. But right now we're alive! And we just killed the shit out of a god! How many can say the same? We deserve a good drink."  
Bull stood to fetch the ale as the others murmured their enthusiasm, it had been a long day. The tankards were passed around and Iron Bull stayed standing to deliver a toast to the night sky.  
"To being alive, and giving that dragon a good ass kicking!"

Lyendrin downed the ale gratefully and sighed as a pleasant warmth filled him, taking the edge from his thoughts.  
As he sat by the fire, Dorian warm by his side and the laughter and conversation of his companions mixing with the sounds of the forest around them, the opinions of the world seemed far more distant and far less important.  
If only for a time.


	15. Ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is falling apart. The Exhalted Council wants to disband the Inquisition, Dorian wants to return to Teviner, and his hand wants to kill him.  
> But there's still one more piece to fall into place

Finally the Qunari mage lay dead. Lyendrin began to understand why the Qunari were so fearful of their mages if they wielded such power, but he had no time to dwell on the thought as he picked himself up and headed for the bright eluvian across the courtyard. Pain lanced up his arm near constantly and the crackling green light now refused to fade. He did not have long.

He was still reeling over what the Vidasaala had said. Solas, working for Fen'harel? It didn't seem possible. He trusted Solas, they were friends, they had fought side by side. As first he knew the old legends inside out, it was his duty to one day protect his clan against the Dread Wolf. How could he not notice if his friend was working against him?  
But he couldn't deny the truth of the things she had said. Solas had disappeared as soon as Corypheus was dead, and he had knowledge about the orb that couldn't be explained. There was something going on here and Lyendrin was determined to figure it out.

The others quickly followed him and he could feel their worried glances boring into his back. The mark flared once more and he gritted his teeth against the pain but continued moving. He hoped Solas had some way of stopping the spread of the Anchor, or he knew he was doomed.  
He reached out a hand and passed through the eluvian, the strange sensation of walking through cold water, the surface tugging at him like sap, now familiar after the day's events. But as soon as he stepped out on the other side, he saw the mirror go blank and dark behind him.  
He was on his own.

He turned and flinched back suddenly, raising his staff to block the Qunari blade he was sure was about to swoop down and cleave his head in two, but no blow came. Slowly he looked around to see scores of living statues, Qunari warriors turned to stone mid battle.  
And then he heard a voice, a voice he hadn't heard in two years, a voice he had sorely missed.

He ran towards the sound, as quickly as his condition would allow, and rounded the top of the stairs to see the Vidasalla raising a javelin at the elven man's turned back. Before he could intervene, the woman suddenly turned to stone, as stiff as the statues in the courtyard below. Solas didn't even turn around. Was this his doing? How could he wield such power? Lyendrin had never seen anything like it, and more questions than before fought for space in his mind.

"Solas."  
He turned, but before Lyendrin could express his relief, he was overcome by another wave of power from the anchor. It pulsed up his arm, energy spiking up his veins and an overwhelming pain forcing him to his knees.  
All other thoughts and feelings were obliterated by the pain. He retreated within himself, waiting for the episode to either pass or finally kill him, until suddenly it stopped, the anchor returning to its usual muted glow.  
"That should give us more time." Solas said, smiling sympathetically as Lyendrin rose to his feet.

Gratitude and anger fought for space within him. The relief from the pain was a high he hadn't experienced in so long, but if Solas could have helped why did he leave? Why did he abandon them, without so much as a goodbye? Weren't they friends?  
"I suspect you have questions."  
Lyendrin almost wanted to laugh. The questions he had could fill the time from now until Uthenera. Nothing made sense, but he knew Solas, trusted him. He would explain everything, somehow it all had to have a reason.

"The Qunari believe you're an agent for someone who has taken the name Fen'Harel."  
It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud. He expected a laugh, a gentle reprimand for his foolishness, and a better explanation, but Solas only looked sad when he replied.  
"The Qunari reject myth and legend. Had you told them of your meeting with Mythal, they would attribute it to a demon."  
Something began to form in the pit of Lyendrin’s stomach. He knew he wouldn't like what he was about to hear.  
"I am no one's agent but my own. I fear that the truth is much simpler, and much worse, than the Qunari believe."  
Lyendrin’s eyes went wide, a feeling like falling into a freezing lake coming over his whole body.  
"You're Fen'Harel?"  
And then Solas began to explain.

He could scarcely believe his own ears. Solas, his best friend, the man he fought with and trusted. Fen'Harel, the creature of myth and legend, an evil trickster intent on destroying the Elven Gods. How could they be the same person? His whole being rejected the idea, everything he was raised to believe was crumbling in mere moments. He had dedicated his life to a religion that was no more than an obscured and glorified legend. Tyrants and oppressors revered into gods. The thought made him sick.

But the more they talked, the more it began to feel like old times, and Lyendrin loved it despite it all. The chance to speak to him again, to learn more about the fade and the ancient elves. He had always loved talking to Solas, he had missed him greatly, and even now found himself sympathetic.  
Solas himself was ancient. From the time of old Arlathan, like the elves in the temple of Mythal. To lose so much, to awaken in a world so foreign where the remnants of the people you tried to save brand you a villain. He couldn't imagine.  
He began to regret not taking Solas with him all those years ago. Perhaps he could have learned more from them, perhaps he could have figured it out sooner.

His anger wouldn't stall forever though, gaining ground within him as the seconds passed. Solas had used them, manipulated them, all along he had been planning to destroy them even as they laughed and ate together. And he had had no idea. They were friends for the two years they had fought Corypheus, and even after Solas had left Lyendrin had never suspected this. He had failed. He had been taken in by his wisdom and intelligence and never questioned what lay beneath. It was his duty to protect his people, all people, and he had been blinded.

"There's still the matter of the anchor." He said eventually, putting aside his reeling mind in an attempt to focus on the present.  
"It's getting worse."  
He tried to keep the fear from his voice, to hide how scared he really was by the foreign power consuming him. He couldn't tell if he succeeded.  
"Yes. I'm sorry." Solas replied sadly, avoiding his gaze almost guiltily. "And we are almost out of time."  
He felt it then, the pain returning, setting every nerve on fire as he screamed. His legs gave way beneath him but he barely registered hitting the ground.  
"The mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you," Solas said, kneeling down next to him.  
"At least for now." He added, sounding regretful. It should have worried Lyendrin, but he found it difficult to even focus on the words through the blanket of agony.

He raised his head, attempting to meet Solas' eyes through pain-blurred vision.  
"You don't need to destroy this world." Lyendrin forced the words out between gritted teeth, panting between gasped breath.  
"I'll prove it to you."  
Solas returned to his feet, and looked down on him sadly.  
"I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again, my friend."  
He extended his arm.  
"Take my hand."  
Lyendrin grasped onto it, his arm shaking only slightly more than the rest of his body.  
"I'm sorry."

Solas made a gesture with his free hand, and Lyendrin felt with a jolt as the magic within his arm condensed and snapped.  
He could feel the difference already, the pain still grew with every new pulse but as it did so it collapsed in on itself. Instead of expanding like it had, it hit a wall at his elbow and folded back, burning deeper within his forearm.  
"Live well. While time remains."  
Solas turned from him, striding towards the eluvian, and Lyendrin was powerless to stop him or even follow. He could only watch as the mirror shimmered, leading him to places unknown, and then hardened into a dull grey, inactive.

The power in his arm burned, changed now but somehow even more painful, concentrated into the limb. He fell to his side, clutching his wrist in an almost foetal position as he cried out, tears falling into the dirt. Somewhere he thought he heard someone calling his name, but he could barely perceive anything around the oppressive waves of agony, and all too quickly he slipped into unconsciousness.


	16. Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian was actually rather looking forward to the Exhalted Council.  
> A chance to see Lyendrin again after so long, a chance to say a proper goodbye before he left for Tevinter.  
> Now their goodbyes seem far too permanent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to the last chapter, but from Dorian's perspective this time

Dorian groaned as he picked himself up from the ground. Blood kept trickling into his eye from a gash on his forehead and his ribs felt bruised, possibly broken. He saw Lyendrin heading swiftly for the eluvian and hurried to catch up, eyeing the mark on his hand with growing concern. Except it wasn't really on his hand anymore, it covered his entire forearm and crackled with pent up energy. It had taken to exploding with power every few minutes with devastating effect, and though he tried his best to hide it Dorian could tell how much pain it was causing Lyendrin.  
He shook the thoughts from his mind as they pressed onwards, he couldn't dwell on them now, he wouldn't. They would find Solas and he would fix the mark like he had in Haven. Lyendrin would be okay, it was the only thought he allowed himself to have. The alternative did not bare thinking about.  
He saw Lyendrin pass through the eluvian first and as he reached out to follow, it went dark and still. His fingers touched hard glass, cold and unyielding, and he let out a panicked yell.

"No! Lyendrin!" He raised a fist in frustration but Iron Bull grabbed his arm.  
"You break that mirror, he has no way back." He said matter of factly, before releasing his arm and allowing it to hang limply by his side.  
"We- we have to find a way in, we have to do something!" Dorian found himself panicking, casting frantic glances around for something, anything that could help.  
"Calm down, Dorian," Varric replied, abandoning nicknames in the severity of their situation.  
"He's resourceful, he'll be okay."  
"He's in there alone! With the Viddasala and that traitorous bastard! Oh, I'm going to wring his neck when I get my hands on him." Dorian fumed, pacing in front of the mirror, clenching and unclenching his fists.  
After a few seconds he slowed, gathering his thoughts. "His mark... the explosions... We don't have much time before it kills him." He said quietly, finally allowing himself to acknowledge the thought.  
"I won't let him be alone."  
He stared into the blank mirror, willing it to let him pass. But the surface stayed still and unforgiving, and he could only wait.

The long minutes were torturous. No matter what spells Dorian tried, the eluvian stayed stubbornly closed. The key could be anything at all, he had no way to determine how to get through except painfully slow trial and error.  
Iron Bull sat on a rock, wiping the blade of his axe clean with a rag. Anything to keep his mind focused and busy, not wandering into thoughts of magic or the plight of his friend.  
Varric paced circles around the clearing, looking for anything of interest that could possibly help, eyeing the still bright eluvian they had entered through. It was open, they could go back and try another of the mirrors to try and find a way around, but there was no guarantee any would lead to where the Inquisitor was, and getting lost in a sea of magic doorways wasn't high on his list of priorities.

None of them wanted to leave without Lyendrin, in case they could somehow find a way through the eluvian or he could find a way back. And so they waited, terse silence between them as they all thought about what none of them wanted to say.  
Just as Dorian prepared yet another spell to attempt to bypass the ancient magical seals, there was a crystalline sound and a fluid glow of light as the eluvian activated once more. He paused in shock, suddenly caught off guard by whatever strange force had activated the mirror.  
Iron Bull quickly got to his feet, weapon in hand, and Varric turned and hurried back towards them. The movement was enough to kick start Dorian’s brain back into gear, and he pushed through the mirror, desperate to find what was on the other side.

He emerged on the other side, ready to put on a bust of speed with prepared spells tingling at the end of his fingertips. His face landed inches from a fierce qunari warrior, and on reflex he let out a yell and swung his staff around to connect with the stone shoulder.  
The wood cracked on impact with a disheartening crunch, but before he could lament the destruction of the weapon Lyendrin had gifted him, his attention was caught by an agonized scream.  
He turned quickly towards the sound, already setting off running as he heard the others emerging from the eluvian behind him, still holding his staff now with a fissure running down the centre and splinters peeling off the sides.  
"Lyendrin!" He called out frantically, following the sound with the pounding in his chest echoing in his ears.  
He only needed to hear a second of it to know it was Lyendrin making the ear-grating noise. He had heard it's like many times when the mark had flared and consumed him in the night time. The scream made his heart twist and his stomach clench in anguish, but some dark part of him was relieved to hear it. If he could scream then he was still alive, he wasn't too late.

Which was why his blood ran cold when the scream stopped, a sob petering out into nothingness.  
He reached the top of the hill and paused, panting to catch his breath. He was without the sound now to guide him, but even a blind man could have seen the bright green glow emanating from a few metres away.  
Lyendrin was curled into a ball on the ground, dirt and blood covering his clothes where he had thrashed, making haphazard marks in the dust. The anchor was crackling and spitting, shining a sickly green light on his pale face as he lay unmoving on the ground.  
"Amatus!"  
His voice cracked, the panic and pain forcing their way to the surface as he rushed to his side, throwing the useless staff to the ground. It couldn't be true, not now, he refused to allow it.

He heard the other two running up behind him and then a sharp intake of breath and an angry grunt.  
"Is he... ?" Varric asked tentatively, almost afraid to venture any closer to Dorian in his frantic state.  
Dorian was silent for a long moment, knelt close to Lyendrin on the ground, and then silently thanked every deity he could think of when he saw Lyendrin take a shallow breath.  
"He's alive." Dorian said, relief bleeding from his words. But it didn't last long before it was replaced by anger, the pain turned to purpose.  
"But barely." He muttered, examining the anchor now filling the whole of his forearm and burning brighter as the seconds passed. He had felt it as soon as he approached, the magic was different, altered somehow.

Had Solas done something? He was the only one who knew anything about the mark and the Qunari said he was here, but they were alone now as he looked around, a single dim eluvian and the stony form of the Viddasala their only company. He had no idea what had happened, how he had got in this state, and the lack of knowledge frustrated him. He felt powerless to help.  
He tried to focus on the present, on the task at hand and what he must do, but the sight of Lyendrin in such a state was almost too much for him. He was pale and sweating, a pained grimace etched deep into his face, blood staining his skin and obscuring the gentle patterns of his vallaslin.  
He brushed some errant hair from his face, and winced as he felt the fever burning underneath his fingertips.  
"Lyendrin? Lyendrin, can you hear me? It's me. I'm here. Maker, please say something."  
He tried not to sob through the words, but was met with only silence in return, and the crackling of the anchor.

The mark on his arm was the worst of it. It had stopped spreading, and instead burned deeper through skin and tissue with every pulse. Blood and fluid had begun to ooze from burned flesh that filled the air with a disgusting odour.  
"That arm doesn't look good." Bull said, looking at the glowing annex of energy with apprehension.  
"You think I don't know that?" Dorian snapped in return, his hands balling into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms.  
He would not break here. He owed more to Lyendrin than that. He would find a way, everything would be alright.  
"Something has stopped the magic from spreading." He muttered aloud, hoping the words would give way to new thoughts.  
"Well that's a good thing right?" Varric replied hopefully but Dorian cut him off with a shake of his head.  
"It's still building, now it just has nowhere to go. It's burning him up."

There was contemplative silence for a moment, and then Iron Bull spoke up in a serious tone.  
"We need to remove the arm."  
Dorian whipped his head around to stare at Iron Bull.  
"Kaffas, are you insane?!"  
He positioned himself in front of Lyendrin almost protectively but Iron Bull only fixed him with a determined expression.

"Dorian, listen to me. I don't understand the whole magic crap but if the mark has stopped spreading, we can remove it. It might be his only chance right now."  
Dorian continued to shake his head, looking panicked.  
"No! We don't even know if it would work, the magic isn't just physically in his arm, it's connected to him through the fade."  
He accompanied his arguing with frantic gestures, and the high run emotions began to cause nearby shrubs to burst into flame, but he barely took any notice.  
"You can't just hack off a limb! In his state the trauma could kill him just as soon as anything else!"  
Iron Bull crouched down and put a heavy hand on Dorian’s shoulder, forcing him to look him in the eye.  
"Dorian. We have to do something now or he won't survive the trip back to the palace."  
Dorian seemed to pause, conflicted feelings clashing in his mind as his gaze lingered over on Lyendrin laying unconscious on the ground.  
Slowly he took a steadying breath and nodded.  
"Okay. Help me."  
"Andraste have mercy." Varric muttered, and the three of them got to work.  
The next seconds passed in a blur, Dorian’s limbs moving without him even being directly involved or aware of their activity. He tied a tight bandage around the top of Lyendrin’s arm, and he and Varric held Lyendrin still, his left arm exposed, while Iron Bull raised his heavy battle axe.

Dorian turned his head away, but couldn't escape the sound of slicing flesh and the crunch of cartilage. A heart rending scream followed, that once more quickly faded into nothing as Dorian muttered half formed apologies and assurances. He hurriedly packed and bandaged the remainder of the limb, thankful somehow for the burning anchor that had partially cauterised it already.  
Iron Bull gathered the Inquisitor into his arms, his now ragged braid swinging with every step as his head lolled to one side.  
They made haste for the palace, Dorian’s gaze always turning to linger on Lyendrin as they walked in strained silence, broken only when he gained consciousness for long enough to cry out in pain.

That night was the longest of Dorian’s life.  
Lyendrin had been injured before, in battles and on missions in the two years they fought Corypheus and after, but never like this. Never knowing that even if he recovered, he would never be the same again.  
Would he forgive him?

He couldn't stop himself thinking back to the long months he spent in Tevinter, and the letters they had exchanged. He never knew the mark had gotten this bad, never even thought to ask. Lyendrin hadn't mentioned it and he had been content to let the matter slip from his mind.  
Why hadn't he said something?

Should he have stayed? He couldn't help but think this was somehow his fault. If he hadn't gone home, if he had stayed and been with him, known how he had been suffering, maybe he could have helped. He could have done something, anything.  
But now there was nothing left to do, except sit outside the room, worrying the new pendant with his fingertips, and wondering if he would ever have the chance to use it.


	17. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyendrin struggles to adjust to the change in his duties following the Exhalted Council, but his remaining friends do their best to help

The quill scratched across the parchment, moving in jittery stops and starts and leaving small globs of ink in its wake. His penmanship was poor at the best of times, so now trying to write with his off hand was a near impossible task. He gripped it tighter to try and keep it steady and the shaft bent, folding over itself and squirting ink out of the end all over the report.  
He threw the quill down in frustration with a grunt, putting his face in his hand and then yelling a curse as he felt sticky black ink smear from his fingers onto his forehead.  
"Su an’banal i’ma" He yelled, standing up in such a hurry that he knocked his chair over backwards.

Quickly he heard footsteps outside the room and as he hurriedly righted the chair once more the door opened to reveal Cullen’s tired face.  
"Inquisitor? Is everything alright?" He took in the ink splattered parchments all over the desk, and the black smears on his face, mocking the patterns of his vallaslin.  
Cullen looked at him with concern and pity, and it made Lyendrin’s muscles tense with anger.  
He avoided Cullen’s gaze and went to cross his arms, before faltering and simply letting them hang by his sides.  
"I'm fine, Cullen. Carry on."  
He remained hovering in the doorway.  
"Do you need help with your reports? I could get someone to-"  
"No!" Lyendrin snapped, louder than he intended, and Cullen raised his eyebrows in a shocked expression.  
"Sorry." Lyendrin apologised quickly. "Just leave me be."

Cullen stepped forward into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.  
"Lyendrin, what is it? Does your arm trouble you?" He asked insistently, and Lyendrin’s face set into a firm scowl.  
"My arm can't trouble me anymore, Cullen, it's gone!" He began to pace with restless energy.  
"But my lack of an arm certainly troubles me. I can't train, I can't fight, I just sit in the castle each day growing bored and lazy." His voice was hoarse and grew louder as he spoke, until he was practically yelling.  
"I can't do anything by myself anymore, I would be climbing the walls with restlessness but, oh wait, I can't do that anymore either! I have no independence. I can't even write reports. I hate reports! But now I wish I could write them just so I could do something useful!"  
Cullen stood in careful silence as he ranted, watching as he paced and yelled, gesticulating wildly. He was so charged with emotion that sparks jumped from his fingers to nearby metal objects, and Cullen became suddenly regretful he was standing so close in his full metal armour.

"I'm just a figurehead now! An ornament to sit on a shelf and never be used!"  
Cullen tried to speak but Lyendrin didn't even show that he'd heard him, his tirade continuing at full speed without pause.  
"Even now the stupid mark won't let me be! It hounds my sleep, aching in a palm that no longer exists and glowing in faint green tones behind my eyelids."  
He sagged back into the chair, the anger and energy seeming to drain from him all at once. He rested his elbows on the desk and stroked the back of his own head in an absent motion, running inky fingers through the light brown strands and dyeing them a darker black.

Cullen stared at the swinging pendant around his neck for a brief moment.  
"Have you spoken to Dorian about this?"  
He asked gently and Lyendrin shook his head with a small scoff.  
"Of course not. Didn't you see how he hovered around my bedside these past weeks?" He tugged on the bandages around his upper arm in a nervous gesture.  
"He would have stayed here with me, ruined everything he worked for in the Imperium to take care of me. I couldn't let him do that. I had to convince him I was okay. I had to show everyone I was okay."  
He sniffed, acutely aware of the heat on his face and the pathetic display he was showing. He wanted to hide his face in his hands, but even that was beyond him now.  
"We all have our roles to play." Cullen said in a reassuring tone, placing a heavy hand on Lyendrin’s shoulder. "You are needed, and you know that. That's why you kept the Inquisition going, is it not?"

Lyendrin stared down at the floor.  
"I kept the Inquisition going because I am selfish." He muttered. "Because with Dorian gone I have nothing left here, nothing else to do with my life except be the Inquisitor. And I can't even do that."  
Cullen crossed his arms, the metal bracers clinking together as he frowned.  
"That's not true and you know it." He said sternly. "There isn't a selfish bone in your body, Lyendrin Lavellan, and you are the best leader I have ever had the pleasure of working under. The Inquisition only exists because of you, because you took a stand against Corypheus. Someone needs to stop Solas, and nobody understands him better than you, nobody could reason with him like you could. Your role may have changed but do not doubt your abilities, I would not serve another."

Lyendrin remained silent, still avoiding Cullen’s eyes.  
"You can do these things, Lyendrin, you just need patience. It will take time for you to adapt, to return to full strength. You're barely healed and already trying to throw yourself back into the fray."  
"I've never been very good at patience." Lyendrin muttered and Cullen sighed.  
"Don't I know it." He muttered ruefully, but his voice softened and he dropped his arms to his sides.  
"Inquisitor, you are not alone here. You have people who care for you, you can rely on us."

Lyendrin looked up to meet Cullen’s eye and let slip a small smile despite it all.  
"That's quite the pep talk, Commander."  
Cullen smiled in return.  
"A close friend once helped me in my struggles, when I found myself unworthy and faltering. I would do the same."  
Lyendrin stood from the chair with a sigh, gazing at the mess on his desk and the ink stains on his hand.  
"I should get this cleaned up." He muttered, and Cullen nodded and began to head towards the door.  
"Cullen?" Lyendrin called out, and he paused at the doorway and turned to look back at him.  
"Yes, Inquisitor?"  
"Thank you."


	18. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They might be far away, but they'll always have each other

The wood was warm against his touch, likely due to him fiddling with it constantly for the past hour. He ran his fingertips across the engravings once more, feeling the gentle curve he had spent hours trying to get right, tracing the petals as they wound around the simple band. It wasn't bright or flashy or expensive. It was made by his own unskilled hand, like tradition suggested. Days spent hunched over pieces of ironbark in practice, eyes fierce with concentration and air crackling with frustration. It wasn't what he normally wore. Would he like it? Was it enough? 

The metal was cool against his skin. He picked up the ring once more from its small box, where he had kept it hidden and safe for the past weeks, eyes always glancing towards it with masked emotion. The gold was polished to a high shine, and the band curved and coiled around itself in a way that set light bouncing on the walls as he turned it this way and that. It had taken weeks to commission and cost a small fortune. Days spent arguing with craftsmen on specific details, demanding it be just so with all the authority of his station. It wasn't what he normally wore. Would he like it? Was it enough?

So many gathered in the garden, flowers blooming around hastily erected tables and chairs. Fortress turned to palace, battle turned to joy. Nervous sweating and blissful smiles, hushed voices barely heard over a pounding heartbeat. Stood nose to nose, all eyes on them but eyes only for him.

He slips a ring on my finger, the wood is warm and solid, with carefully engraved flowers running across the band. Orchids. Did he make this himself? It's perfect. He's perfect.

He slips a ring on my finger, the metal is cool and smooth, polished until it gleams. It twists like tree roots. How much did he spend on this? It's perfect. He's perfect.

"I do."


	19. The Dread Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf rises, and is forced to face the man he once considered a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time Da4 comes out this will likely be completely canon non-compliant but they're taking forever so I have to do /something/ in the meantime ft. A scene from Doctor Who that made me feel things

Thick rope bound his wrists tightly in front of him. Normally it wouldn't be a problem, a simple trifle to snap the cords, slip his bonds and escape into the wind.  
But not this time.   
No matter how he tried he couldn't summon more than a spark to his fingertips, and the spirit within him was dull and quiet. Whatever the Inquisitor had done had clearly had its desired effect. With magic beyond his grasp he was totally helpless, completely at the mercy of his former friend.  
He had failed.

"So what now? What do we do, you and I? What happens now?"

Lyendrin had hardly looked at him since his capture, but never strayed far. He busied himself in the room, writing letters, giving brief orders to anyone that entered and ushering them out again. The visitors didn't shy away from staring though, enraptured as they were by the sight of the Dread Wolf, subdued and bound. But Lyendrin seemed to studiously ignore him. Even as Solas spoke he didn't raise his head from his desk, forcing him to prompt once more in search of answers.

"Inquisitor?"

Lyendrin finally raised his gaze, fixing Solas with a long hard stare. Solas took the opportunity to study his face. He was older, or perhaps he simply looked it, lines creased across his brow and in the corners of his eyes. He wore his hair long, like he had before he became Inquisitor, pulled back into a loose braid over one shoulder and tied with a leather cord. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. They betrayed a weight, responsibility and pain that he had carried for years. He wondered how badly the remnants of the Anchor still troubled him. Beyond that though, there was something else, something harder to put his finger on. Guilt? Regret? He tried to place it, but Lyendrin’s expression quickly hardened into one far more recognizable.

"Go to hell."

Solas dropped his gaze, his hopes of a friendly reunion buried along with the dead. He would find no mercy here, in the cold eyes of a man past the point of forgiveness. The anger and venom in his voice matched the tense nature of his posture and his features, betraying the pent up frustration he directed at his captive. Solas could hardly blame him, after what they had been through. It was his fault after all that the war with Corypheus had begun, that Lyendrin had been taken from his clan and forced to endure such hardships, and all the while he had stood by his side and never told him the truth. He knew the betrayal would sting, knew the blame could only be laid at his feet.

"I suppose that's fair. More than fair really, considering."

Lyendrin approached him then, a dagger in hand, and he wondered briefly if this was to be the end of it. No public trial and execution, simply a private revenge for a personal grudge. It didn't seem like Lyendrin's style but well, much can change over the course of the years they had spent apart, and he knew he had done little to deserve better.  
He would not beg, would not whimper, and so simply raised his chin and met Lyendrin's eyes as he stood over his knelt form.  
The blade flashed, he tensed in preparation for the bite, the rush of fleeing life, and then felt the pressure on his wrists slacken as his bonds were slashed.

"What are you doing?"

The confusion was now evident in his voice as he began to try and rub some life back into his sore hands, fighting the sting of returning circulation. Lyendrin didn't even pause, returning to his desk and turning his back on his former captive in a show of trust Solas would never have expected. Was it some kind of ploy? Did he wish him to attempt to escape so he could feel justified in striking him down? But if all he wanted was Solas' death, he could have achieved that in much simpler ways than this. Lyendrin noticed his hesitation, and turned finally to speak to him directly.

"You asked what we were going to do. We're going to hell. Or the Beyond, or Uthenera, or wherever it is you banished the Evanuris to. We're going to put an end to them once and for all, and we're going to do what we can to restore your people the right way."

Solas slowly stood, still reeling trying to catch up with the turn the conversation had taken. The Inquisitor had tracked him down, neutralised his powers and bound him, all to offer his help? Was this part of some larger plot? Could he trust anything the man in front of him had to say? Years of solitude had taught him to be wary, and of all the ways he had imagined this ending, an offer of assistance with his plans was not high on his list. Not after everything that had happened between them.

"You're going to help me?"

The offer still felt like a trap, a false hope dangled before his eyes. Why would the Inquisitor, the public leader of the fight against him, the symbol of hope against the darkness many saw him now to represent, why would he help?  
And if it wasn't a gesture from the title, if it was an offer from the man, the friend, then he believed it even less. Only a fool would expect forgiveness and aid so easily after all he had done, the lies he had told, the people and events he had manipulated for so long.  
It was safer not to hope.

"Well, why wouldn't I help you?"

Despite Solas' misgivings Lyendrin only replied with a half smile, cocking his head in a way so familiar Solas could almost feel like they'd gone back in time. Back to when they had stood side by side, talked and laughed in the long months as they fought against Corypheus. Fought to fix his mistake.  
And that was what held him back. The knowledge that the blame for all that had passed between them until now laid squarely at his feet. And the fear that despite anything he might do or say, nothing would ever make up for those mistakes.

"Because of what I have done, I-"

"You betrayed me."

Lyendrin didn't even let him finish his sentence before he cut in, expression darkening sharply to look Solas in the eye, his voice filling with a cold disappointment and rising to bottled up anger as he went on, finally succumbing to the emotional display Solas had expected for their reunion.

"You betrayed my trust, you betrayed our friendship, you betrayed everything that I've ever stood for. You let me down!"

Solas stood motionless, quiet in his shame.  
He knew what he'd done, he knew the cost. How many times had he contemplated it? In the time they spent together and since. How many times had he questioned himself? Going back and forth between doubting the wisdom of his plans and the wisdom of allowing himself to form such friendships with those he knew he would eventually have to destroy.  
He took no pleasure in it, but he had accepted his role, accepted his guilt, so why hadn't Lyendrin?

"Then why are you helping me?"

"Why?"

The Inquisitor echoed the question, in a soft tone that suggested the answer was obvious, that Solas shouldn't even need to ask. Solas tensed once more as Lyendrin took a step towards him, but the elf only met his eyes and held out a remaining hand in a gesture of friendship. A lifeline, an olive branch, a sympathetic smile on the lips of an old friend. The expected anger and vengeance suddenly nowhere to be found.

"Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?"


End file.
